
CHA-lRXdE § X^ 



fUtvviiVs enffliel) Cejcts 



ESSxlYS OF ELIA 



BY 



CHARLES LAMB 



EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND 
NOTES BY J. H. CASTLEMAN, A.M., 
TEACHER OF ENGLISH IN THE McKIN- 
LEY HIGH SCHOOL, ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI 



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EDITOR'S PREFACE 

In preparing this edition of The Essays of EUa for school 
use it has been the editor's aim to offer such information in 
the introduction and notes as he believes necessary to a thor- 
ough understanding and appreciation of the text. It is hoped 
that the brief account of the author's life, and especially the 
critical estimates given, will induce the reader to inquire 
more deeply into his career; to aid in this a bibliography has 
been appended. It is the purpose ^.f the notes to explain the 
mythological, historical, and biographical references found in 
the w^ork, as well as to define the more difficult words. 

J. H. C. 

Nov. 15, 1907. 



PUBLISHERS' NOTE 
iilerriirs ensli^l) €tj:t6 

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In connection with each text, a critical and historical 
introduction, including a sketch of the life of the author and 
his relation to the thought of his time, critical opinions of 
the work in question chosen from the great body of English 
criticism, and, where possible, a portrait of the author, will 
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CONTENTS 

Introduction page 

A Brief Life of Charles Lamb 9 

Critical Opinions on Lamb as a Man and a Writer . 15 
Critical Opinions on the Essays of Elia .... 19 

Bibliography 23 

Chronological List of Lamb's Works . . . . .25 

THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

The South-Sea House 27 

Oxford in the Vacation 38 

Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago ... 47 

V The Two Races of Men 66 

*\^New Year's Eve . 75 

Mrs. Battle's Opinions on Whist 84 

A Chapter on Ears 94 

All Fools' Day loa-^ 

A Quakers' Meeting lO^s^ 

The Old and the New^ Schoolmaster 114 

^Valentine's Day 126 

Imperfect Sympathies .131 

I 'Witches, and other Night-fears 143 

Ml My Relations 152 

\Mackery End, in Hertfordshire : 162 

J Modern Gallantry 169 

The Old Benchers of the Inner Temple . . . .175 

Grace before Meat 191 

\f,MY First Play 201^ 

Dream-Children ; A Reverie 208 

5 



6 CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Distant Correspondents 214 

The Praise of Chimney-sweepers 222 

A Complaint of the Decay of Beggars in the Metrop- 
olis . , . . . . . .233 

JfA Dissertation upon Roast Pig D^^--S*'^ .P^-*^^^^ . 244 
A Bachelor's Complaint of the Behaviour of Mar- 
ried People . 255 

On Some of the Old Actors 265 

On the Artificial Comedy of the Last Century . . 282 
On the Acting of Munden 294 

LAST ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Preface — By a Friend of the late Elia . . . . . 301 

Blakesmoor in H shire . . . . . . . . . 305 

/ Poor Relations . 313 

Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading . . . 323 

Stage Illusion 332*^ 

To the Shade of Elliston 337/ 

Ellistoniana 340 

The Old Margate Hoy 348 

The Convalescent 360 

Sanity of True Genius 366 

Captain Jackson 371^ 

The Superannuated Man 377 

The Genteel Style in Writing 388 

Barbara S 395 

The Tombs in the Abbey 402/ 

Amicus Redivivus 406 

Some Sonnets of Sir Philip Sydney 413 

Newspapers Thirty-five Years Ago 425 

Barrenness of the Imaginative Faculty in the Pro- 
ductions of Modern Art 435 

Rejoicings upon the New Year's Coming of Age . . 452 
The Wedding 460 



CONTENTS 7 

PAGE 

The Child Angel 468-^ 

Old China 472 

Confessions of a Drunkard 481 

Popular Fallacies — 

I. That a Bully is always a Coward .... 493 
II. That Ill-gotten Gain never Prospers .... 494 

III. /That a Man must not Laugh at his own Jest . 495 

IV. That such a one Shows his Breeding. — That it 

is easy to Perceive he is no Gentleman . . 496 
V. That the Poor copy the Vices of the Kich . . 497 
VI. That Enough is as Good as a Feast .... 499 
VII. Of Two Disputants, the Warmest is generally in 

the Wrong 500 

VIII. That Verbal Allusions are not Wit, because they 

will not bear a Translation 502 

IX. That the Worst Puns are the Best . . . .503 
X. That Handsome is that Handsome Does . . . 506 
XI. ■ . That we must not look a Gift-Horse in the 

Mouth 510 

XII. That Home is Home though it is never so 

Homely . 513 

XIII. That You must Love Me and Love my Dog . .519 

XIV. That we should Rise with the Lark .... 524 
XV. That we should Lie Down with the Lamb . . 528 

XVI. That a Sulky Temper is a Misfortune . . . 530 
Notes 537 



A BRIEF LIFE OF CHARLES LAMB 

Charles Lamb, essayist, critic, poet, was born in London, 
England, February 10, 1775. He was the youngest of three 
children, John, his brother, whom he mentions occasionally in 
his writings, being twelve years, and Mary, his sister, so 
closely associated with him in his literary work, ten years 
his senior. His family were in poor circumstances. John 
Lamb, his father, occupied the humble office of clerk and 
servant to a Mr. Salt, one of the benchers of the Inner Temple, 
which paid him a very meager salary. 

At the age of seven, Charles entered the public schools, 
where he remained but a few months, going from there to 
Christ's Hospital, to which he received an appointment 
through the assistance of Mr. Salt. Here he spent the next 
seven years, devoting his time to the study of Greek and 
Latin in which he made rapid progress. He was a favor- 
ite both with his teachers and fellow-students, his gentle 
manners winning him a place in the hearts of all. It was 
while here that he made Coleridge's acquaintance, — an ac- 
quaintance which was to develop into an intimacy that has 
had few parallels and which was to exercise a great influence 
upon his life. 

In 1789 he withdrew from school to accept a position as 
clerk in the South Sea House, where he remained until 1792, 
when he secured a place in the accountant's office of the East 
India Company. Heavy responsibilities now devolved upon 
him. Both his father's and mother's health failed, and it 
fell to him to provide for them and his sister, — a burden 
which he willingly assumed. But a terrible tragedy was soon 
to blight his happiness. His sister, who had inherited a 

9 



10 LIFE OF CHARLES LAMB 

tendency lo insanity from their father's people, suddenly be- 
came violently insane and killed their mother. He consented 
to her removal to an asylum, but on the return of her reason 
a few months later, secured her release on the condition that 
he act as her guardian. From this time until his death, he 
tenderly cared for her, renouncing all thoughts of marriage 
that he might give her his undivided attention. Shortly after 
the tragedy, their father died leaving him and his sister alone. 
At intervals, when she suffered relapses, he took lier back 
to the asylum, only to liberate her on her recovery to health. 
In the midst of all this sorrow, to which were added fears 
for his own sanity, " his cheerful and loving nature saved him 
from bitterness and despair." Fortunately for him and for 
the world, he turned to literature for consolation. 

Lamb began his literary career as a writer of verse. In 
1797 Coleridge complimented him by including several of his 
poems in a volume of his poetry which appeared that year, — 
a previous work by the same author contained a number of 
his sonnets, — and a little later in company with Charles 
Lloyd, an obscure writer, he published a book of blank verse. 
He soon discovered, however, that poetry yielded scanty finan- 
cial returns, and as he felt the necessity of adding to his 
small income, he turned his attention to prose. His first 
production in this field was a short romance under the title, 
" A Tale of Rosamund Gray and Old Blind Margaret." It 
attracted considerable comment and was widely read. Alfred 
Ainger, one of Lamb's biographers, in discussing it, says: 
" This ' miniature romance ' is perhaps better known after 
the essays of Elia than any of Lamb's writings. ... It 
is redolent of his native sweetness of heart, delicacy of feel- 
ing, and undefinable charm of style." Shelley also spoke 
highly of it : " What a lovely thing is his Rosamund Gray ! " 
he wrote in a letter to Leigh Hunt. " How much knowledge of 
the sweetest and deepest part of our nature in it! When 
I think of such a mind as Lamb's, when I see how un- 
noticed remain things of such exquisite and complete perfec- 



LIFE OF CHARLES LAMB 11 

tion, what should I hope for myself, if I had not higher ob- 
jects in view than fame ? " 

Lamb's next work was a five-act tragedy, entitled John 
Woodvil, which was published in 1802 after it had been re- 
jected as unsuitable for the stage. It was modeled after the 
drama of the pre-Shakespearian period and reflected the many 
weaknesses of the plays of that time. As a result, it met 
with severe criticism, Jeffrey of the Edinburgh Review espe- 
cially denouncing it. Mr. Ainger, in summing up his just 
estimate of it, writes : " The one feature of importance in 
the little drama is that it here and there imitates with much 
skill the imagery and the rhythm of a family of dramatists 
whom the world has been content entirely to forget for nearly 
two centuries." Mr. E — , a farce, written in 1806, met with 
a similar reception, failing on its first performance. 

In the midst of these discouragements, Lamb struggled reso- 
lutely on, and with the help of his sister, soon achieved suc- 
cess. Through the assistance of Hazlitt, the critic, he se- 
cured a contract to write up the plots of Shakespeare's plays 
for a series of books for children, which was being published 
by William Godwin. Mary joined with him in the work, she 
preparing the comedies, while he handled the tragedies. In 
1807 the results of their labors appeared under the name of 
Tales from Shakespeare and received a cordial welcome. The 
first edition was exhausted in a month and was rapidly fol- 
lowed by others. The critics, as well as the public in gen- 
eral, read the stories with delight and commented favorably 
upon them. " One of the most useful and agreeable com- 
panions to the understanding of Shakespeare which has ever 
been produced," said the London Quarterly Review. " The 
youthful reader who is about to taste the charms of our 
great bard is strongly recommended to prepare himself by 
first reading these elegant tales, which in a short compass, 
and adopting, as much as possible, the language of the great 
original, give each plot and story in a most impressive manner. 
Even those who are familiar with every line of the original 



12 LIFE OF CHARLES LAMB 

will be delighted with the pleasing and compendious way in 
which the story of each play is here presented to them." 

After following the Tales from Shakespeare with a child's 
version of the adventures of Ulysses, Lamb turned his atten- 
tion to the early English dramatists. In 1808 he published his 
Specimens of English Dramatic Poets contemporary with 
Shakespeare, consisting of a number of scenes from the plays 
of such writers as Marlowe, Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, Peele, 
Middleton, Webster, and Massinger, to which critical notes 
were appended. The selections chosen illustrate well the dis- 
criminating sense which Lamb possessed, while the criticisms 
mark him as a critic of the highest order. In his Preface 
he states the purpose of the book : " The kind of extracts 
which I have sought after have been, not so much passages 
of wit and humor — though the old plays are rich in such — 
as scenes of passion, sometimes of the deepest quality, inter- 
esting situations, serious descriptions, that which is more 
nearly allied to poetry than to wit, and to tragic rather than 
comic poetry. The plays which I have made choice of have 
been, with few exceptions, those which treat of human life 
and manners, rather than masques and Arcadian Pastorals, 
with their train of abstractions, unimpassioned deities, pas- 
sionate mortals, Claius, and Medorus, and Amintas, and 
Amaryllis. My leading design has been to illustrate what 
may be called the moral sense of our ancestors. To show in 
what manner they felt when they placed themselves by the 
power of imagination in trying situations, in the conflicts of 
duty and passion, or the strife of contending duties; what 
sort of loves and enmities theirs were; how their griefs were 
tempered, and their full-swoln joys abated; how much of 
Shakespeare shines in the great men, his contemporaries, and 
how far in his divine mind and manner he surpassed them 
and all mankind." 

A period of comparative inactivity followed the appearance 
of this work. But in 1820 Lamb resumed his pen, this time 
to give to the world his masterpieces, the inimitable Essays 



LIFE OF CHARLES LAMB 13 

of Elia. These essays were published for the most part in 
the London Magazine, nearly all of them appearing between 
the years of 1820 and 1823, While the subjects, generally 
speaking, are of a commonplace nature, they are treated in 
such a pleasing manner that they attract all thinking persons. 
Overflowing with sprightly humor, advising with kindly crit- 
icism, abounding with thoughtful reflections on the joys and 
sorrows of life, they revea Lamb's character and genius far 
more than any of his other productions. In style they have 
been aptly compared to Addison's essays, having the quaint 
humor, the diversity of subjects, the rambling thoughts, and 
the happy choice of words characteristic of those earlier clas- 
sics. DeQuincey pronounced them " the most delightful section 
among Lamb's works," (For critical opinion see pages 19-21, 
Introduction. ) 

As already suggested, the reader will find Lamb's character 
clearly delineated in his essays. Like Coleridge, Burns, De- 
Quincey, and many other men of genius, he had his weak- 
nesses,- but these were far out- weighed by his noble qualities. 
Nature handicapped him with an impediment of speech and 
a disposition to exceeding shyness, and fate burdened him with 
poverty and an insane sister, but his genial optimism and 
masculine strength triumphed over all obstacles. Those who 
knew him best loved him devotedly and sought every oppor- 
tunity to be in his presence. They pierced the veil of irony 
with which he concealed his real self and saw behind it a 
man with a heart filled with sympathy and love for human- 
ity who longed to be of service to the world. Coleridge called 
him the " gentle hearted Charles," and to those who study 
closely into his life and writings, the epithet is a most felici- 
tous summary of his charming nature. 

Lamb's personal appearance is best described, by his great 
admirer Talfourd : " Methinks I see him before me now, as he 
appeared then, and as he continued with scarcely any percep- 
tible alteration to me, during the twenty years of intimacy 
which followed, and were closed by his death. A light frame, 



14 LIFE OF CHARLES LAMB 

so fragile that it seemed as if a breath would overthrow it, 
clad in clerk-like black, was surmounted by a head of form 
and expression the most noble and sweet. His black hair 
curled crispy about an expanded forehead; his eyes, softly 
brown, twinkled with varying expession, though the prev- 
alent feeling was sad; and the nose, slightly curved, and 
delicately carved at the nostril, with the lower outline of the 
face regularly oval, completed a head which was finely placed 
upon the shoulders and gave importance and even dignity to 
a diminutive and shadowy stem. Who shall describe his 
countenance, catch its quivering sweetness, and fix it forever 
in words? There are none, alas, to answer the vain desire 
of friendship. Deep thought, striving with humor; the lines 
of suffering wreathed into cordial mirth; and a smile of pain- 
ful sweetness, present an image to the mind it can as little 
describe as lose. His personal appearance and manner are 
not unfitly characterized by what he himself says in one of 
his letters to Manning, of Braham, ' a compound of the Jew, 
the sentleman, and the angel.' " 



CRITICAL OPINIONS ON LAMB AS A MAN 
AND A WRITER 

Charles Lamb was eminently a genial writer; Dickens is 
not more so. Amidst all the quips and sports of humor — 
all the exaggerations of fun — all the licensed riot of wit, 
you never lose sight of the kindly, loving, honest, enjoying 
nature of the writer. So distinctly is this personality im- 
pressed, and so lovable the personality, that few have read 
his works without forming an attachment to the man: in this 
also resembling Dickens. — British Quarterly Review for May, 
1848. 

As his fame, so was his genius. It was as fit for thought as 
could be, and equally as unfit for action ; and this rendered him 
melancholy, apprehensive, humorous, and willing to make the 
best of everything as it was, both from tenderness of heart and 
abhorrence of alteration. His understanding was too great to 
admit an absurdity, his frame was not strong enough to deliver 
it from a fear. His sensibility to strong contrasts was the 
foundation of his humor, which was that of a wit at once 
melancholy and willing to be pleased. He would beard a 
superstition and shudder at the old phantasm while he did it. 
One could have imagined him cracking a jest in the teeth 
of a ghost, and then melting into thin air himself out of a 
sympathy with the awful. His humor and his knowledge both, 
were those of Hamlet, of Moliere, of Carlen, who shook a city 
with laughter, and, in order to divert his melancholy, was 
recommended to go and hear himself. Yet he extracted a real 
pleasure out of his jokes, because good-heartedness retains that 
privilege when it fails in everything else. I should say he 
condescended to be a punster if condescension had been a word 
befitting wisdom like his. Being told that somebody had lam- 
pooned him, he said, " Very well, I'll Lamb-pun him." His 
puns were admirable, and often contained as deep things as 
the wisdom of some who have greater names. . . . Willing 

15 



16 CRITICAL OPINIONS 

to see society go on as it did, because he despaired of seeing 
it otherwise, but not at all agreeing in his interior with the 
conunon notions of crime and punishment, he " dumbfound- 
ered " a long tirade one evening by taking the pipe out of his 
mouth, and asking the speaker, " whether he meant to say 
that a thief was not a good man?" — Autohiography of Leigh 
Hunt. 

There is a fine tone of ehiaro-oscuro, a moral perspective, in 
his writings. He delights to dwell on that which is fresh 
to the eye of memory; he yearns after and covets what soothes 
the frailty of human nature. That touches him most nearly 
which is withdrawn to a certain distance, which verges on 
the borders of oblivion; that piques and provokes his fancy 
most which is hid from a superficial glance. That which, 
though gone by, is still remembered, is in his view more 
genuine, and has given more " vital signs that it will live," 
than a thing of yesterday, that may be forgotten to-morrow. 
Death has in this sense the spirit of life in it, and the 
shadowy has to our author something substantial in it. Ideas 
savor most of reality in his mind; or rather his imagination 
loiters on the edge of each, and a page of his writings recalls 
to our fancy the stranger on the grate, fluttering in its dusky 
tenuity, with its idle superstition and hospitable welcome. 
. . . He disdains all the vulgar artifices of authorship, all 
the cant of criticism, and helps to notoriety. He has no grand 
swelling theories to attract the visionary and the enthusiast, 
no passing fancy to allure the thoughtless and the vain. He 
evades the present, he mocks the future. His affections revert 
to and settle on the past, but then even this must have some- 
thing personal and local in it to interest him deeply and 
thoroughly; he pitches his tent in the suburbs of existing 
manners; brings down the account of character to the few 
straggling remains of the last generation; seldom ventures 
beyond the hills of mortality, and occupies that nice point 
between egotism and disinterested humanity. — Hazlitt on 
Lamb in " The Sjnrit of the Age," 



CRITICAL OPINIONS 17 

In appraising an essayist, the personal equation is bound 
to be considered, for, no matter how fine his periods, unless an 
essayist is a man and a brother, we will have none of him. 
Logically this may be wrong, but there it is. Had Lamb 
written only half as well as he did, his personality would still 
probably give him first place among our essayists; yet, as it 
happens, he might claim the place for craftmanship too. When 
compared with Bacon, Addison, Steele, Goldsmith, Hazlitt, 
Leigh Hunt, or Macaulay, his greatest companions in the 
essay, it is Lamb's richness that startles us: above all, his 
interest. Each of the writers named could perhaps do some- 
thing better than Lamb, but Lamb as a whole is better com- 
pany than all. His range is not wider than theirs, but his 
humor is more winning, his sanity more sweet and reasonable, 
his prose more fascinating. He might, perhaps, have been 
more richly endowed with the sense of form, but that is per- 
haps least important of an essayist's gifts. The essay — 
more almost than any literary product — reflects its writ- 
er's mind, and the tangential progressions and abrupt con- 
clusions of some of Lamb's discussions are eminently charac- 
teristic of their author. A good essay, more than a novel, 
a poem, a play, or a treatise, is personality translated into 
print: between the lines must gleam attractive features or we 
remain cold. — E. V. Lucas, Introduction to the Essays of Elia. 
Lamb's criticism partook largely of the spirit of Coleridge, 
— entering, with a most learned spirit of human dealing, into 
the dramatic being of the characters of the play, and bringing 
out, with an incomparable delicacy and accuracy of touch, 
their places of contact and mutual repulsion. The true point 
of view Lamb always seized with unerring precision, and this 
led him, with equal success, to detect the real center, whether 
a character or an event, round which the orb of the drama 
revolved. Hence he was one of the most original of critics, 
and threw more and newer light upon the genuine meaning 
of some of the great masterpieces of the theater than any 
other man; and yet we do not remember a single instance in 



18 CRITICAL OPINIONS 

which any of his positions have been gainsaid. Like all critics 
who have a real insight into their subject, Lamb, helps you, 
in a few words, to a principle — a master-key — by which you 
may work out the details of the investigation yourself. You 
are not merely amused with a brilliant description of a char- 
acter or passage, but become a discerning judge in the light 
of your own perceptions and convictions. — Quarterly Review 
for July, 1835. 



CRITICAL OPINIONS ON THE ESSAYS 
OF ELJA 

The " Essays of Elia/' on which alone Lamb's claim to a 
name in literature can be founded, were almost all published 
during the last fourteen years of his life. He was then in 
the maturity of his powers, and he poured forth his original 
thoughts and quaint fancies with a richness and variety which 
no other essayist has ever rivalled. He had every qualifica- 
tion for an essayist. He had learnt English from the best 
teachers — the old writers ; and he had been an apt scholar, 
— not accumulating merely, but assimilating what he learnt. 
His early style is often antiquated ; but in the " Essays of 
Elia," there is no trace of an excessive or servile adherence 
to the manner of his models. Few writers, indeed, have had 
a more real command of English than Lamb had. He was 
not restrained or impeded by the exigencies of the language; 
he rather controlled it, and molded it, so to speak, to his 
purposes. It might be possible, by a careful study and imita- 
tion of Addison or Goldsmith, to form a good independent 
style of composition. Their English is flexible; it can adapt 
itself, without much difficulty to the peculiarities of other 
minds. (It is not so with Charles Lamb's writings. His style 
is rigid, and cannot be copied or adapted. It is Elia's Eng- 
lish. To imitate it -^ould be mere mimicry. Sometimes it 
almost seems as if the impediment in Lamb's speech had in- 
fluenced his style. His sentences are often very short, with 
frequent and long pauses; but brilliant, suggestive. His ideas 
succeed each other with wonderful richness and profusion: 
they seem to spring perfect from the brain. But these curt 
and broken sentences are merely used by Elia as means to 
produce a desired effect. The pauses were the " halting-stones 
and resting places " of his wit. There were no " ligaments " 
that bound him when the pen was in his hand. No one could 
write more sweet or flowing English than he. — Extracts from 

19 



20 CRITICAL OPINIONS 

Introduction to the Essays of Elia, published by George Bell 
and Sons. 

The prose essays, under the signature of Elia, form the 
most delightful sec "on among Lamb's works. They traverse 
a peculiar field of observation, sequestered from general in- 
terest; and they are composed in a spirit too delicate and 
unobtrusive to catch the ear of the noisy crowd, clamoring 
for strong sensations. But this retiring delicacy itself, the 
pensiveness checkered by gleams of the fanciful, and the 
humor that is touched with cross-lights of pathos, together 
with the picturesque quaintness of the objects casually de- 
scribed, whether men, or things, or usages, and in the rear 
of all this, the constant recurrence to ancient recollections 
and to decaying forms of household life, as things retiring 
before the tumult of new and revolutionary generations; these 
traits in combination communicate to the papers a grace and 
strength of originality, which nothing in any literature ap- 
proaches, whether for degree or kind of excellence, except the 
most felicitous papers of Addison, such as those on Sir Roger 
de Coverley, and some others in the same vein of composition. 
They resemble Addision's papers also in the diction, which 
is natural and idiomatic, even to carelessness. They are 
equally faithful to the truth of nature; and in this only, they 
differ remarkably — that the sketches of Elia reflects the stamp 
and impress of the writer's own character, whereas in all 
those of Addison, the personal peculiarities of the delineator 
are nearly quiescent. — Thomas DeQuincey, Charles Lamb in 
Biographical Essays. 

Elia refreshes our whole man. We read it not for the style, 
all but faultless, not for the sentiment, humor, or pathos, 
not for the manly thought, the genuine philosophy, the moral 
sense, wonderfully delicate and true, not for the admirable 
criticism, but for all these richly intermingled. Lamb is gen- 
erally regarded as one of a school or clique, and yet if there 
is a writer who is himself and no other, it is he. Conceits 
he has in abundance; but then they are honest, natural parts 



CRITICAL OPINIONS 21 

of the man, alive with his own spirit, oftentimes more quaint 
in the expression than odd in the essence, and a conceit whicli 
is genuine has a relish to which the most approved common- 
places can make no pretense. However peculiar, he is always 
human and of course sure in the end of the sjmipathy of a 
healthy reader. The Prince of Essayists, he has above all 
his order " planted a fixed foot " among our home affections. — 
W. H. Furness, Christian Examiner for January, 1838. 

" Elia " is never verbose, yet never incomplete. You are not 
wearied because he says too much nor dissatisfied because he 
says too little. In this inimitable sense of proportion, this fit- 
ness of adjustment between thought and expression, the prose 
of " Elia " reminds us of the verse of Horace. Nor is the 
Essayist without some other resemblance to the Poet — in the 
amenity which accompanies his satire; in his sportive view of 
things grave, the grave morality he deduces from things 
sportive; his equal sympathy for rural and for town life; his 
constant good-fellowship, and his lenient philosophy. Here, 
indeed, all similitude ceases: the modern essayist advances no 
pretension to the ancient poet's wide survey of the social va- 
rieties of mankind; to his seizure of those large and catholic 
types of human nature which are familiarly recognizable in 
every polished community, every civilized time; still less to 
that intense sympathy in the life and movement of the world 
around him which renders the utterance of his individual emo- 
tion the vivid illustration of the character and history of his 
age. Yet " Elia " secures a charm of his own in the very 
narrowness of the range to which he limits his genius. For 
thus the interest he creates becomes more intimate and house- 
hold. — Buhcer-Lytton on " Charles Lamh and some of his 
Companions.'" 



BIBLIOGRAPHY ■ 

Charles Lamh (English Men of Letters Series), Works of 
Charles Lamh (6 vols.), Letters of Charles Lamh, Ainger. 

Life of Charles Lamh, Works of Charles and Mary Lamh (7 
vols.), Lucas. 

Life, Letters and Writings of Charles Lamh (6 vols.), Fitz- 
gerald. 

Life and Letters of Charles Lamh, The Final Memorials of 
Charles Lamh, Talfourd. 

The Larnhs; their Lives, their Friends and their Correspond- 
ence, Charles and Mary Lamh: Poems, Letters and Remains, 
Hazlitt. 

Charles Lamh (Biographical Essays), DeQuincey. 

Charles Lamh: A Memoir, Procter. 

In the Footsteps of Charles Lamh, Martin. 

Sidelights on Charles Lamh, Dobell. 

Charles Lamh, Cradock. 

Personal Recollections of Lamh and Others, Stoddard. 

Charles Lamh at his Desk, Peabody. 

Charles Lamh and George Wither (Miscellanies), Swinburne. 

Charles Lamh (History of Nineteenth Century Literature), 
Saintsbury. 
Interesting references to Lamb occur in the following: 

Life of Mary Lamh, Gilchrist. 

Tahle Talk, Hazlitt. 

Appreciations, Pater. 

Autohiography, Hunt. 

Yesterdays tvith Authors, Fields. 

Literary Portraits, Gilfillan. 

23 



24 BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Literary Reminiscences, Hood. 

Literary Landmarks of London, Hutton. 

My Friends and Acquaintances, Patmore. 

Early Recollections of Coleridge, Cottle. 

Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, Southey, C. C. 

tioctes Ambrosianae, Wilson. 



CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF LAMB'S WORKS 

Sonnets (Published in "Poems on Various Subjects" by Col- 
eridge), 1796. 

Poems (Published in volume with poetical works of Coleridge 
and Lloyd), 1797. 

Blank verse by Charles Lloyd and Charles Lamb, 1798. 

A Tale of Rosamund Gray and Old Blind Margaret, 1798. 

John Woodvil, a Tragedy, 1802. 

Mrs. Leicester's School and other stories, 1807. 

Tales from Shakespeare, 1807. 

The Adventures of Ulysses, 1808. 

Specimens of English Dramatic Poets contemporary with 
Shakespeare, 1808. 

Poetry for Children, 1809. 

Prince Dorus (a poetical version of an ancient tale), 1811. 

The Works of Charles Lamb (2 vols.), 1818. 

Essgiys of Elia (first series), 1823. 

Album Verses, Avith a few others, 1830. 

Satan in Search of a Wife, 1831. 

The Last Essays of Elia, 1833. • 



25 



THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 



THE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE 

Reader, in thy passage from the Bank ^ — where thou 
hast been receiving thy half-yearly dividends (sup- 
posing thou art a lean annuitant like myself) — to the 
Flower Pot/ to secure a place for Dalston, or Shackle- 
well,^ or some other thy suburban retreat northerly, — • 
didst thou never observe a melancholy looking, hand- 
some, brick and stone edifice to the left — ^where 
Threadneedle Street abuts upon Bishopsgate ? I dare 
say thou hast often admired its magnificent portals 
ever gaping wide, and disclosing to view a grave 
court, with cloisters, and pillars, with few or no 
traces of goers-in or comers-out — a desolation some- 
thing like Balclutha's.*® 

This was once a house of trade, — a center of busy 
interests. The throng of merchants was here — the 
quick pulse of gain — and here some forms of business 
are still kept up, though the soul be long since fled. 
Here are still to be seen stately porticos; imposing 
staircases; offices roomy as the state apartments in 

* " I passed by the walls of Balclutha, and they were deso- 
late." OSSIAN. 

27 



28 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

palaces — deserted, or thinly peopled with a few strag- 
gling clerks; the still more sacred interiors of court 
and committee rooms, with venerable faces of beadles, 
door-keepers — directors seated in form on solemn days 
(to proclaim a dead dividend) at long worm-eaten 
tables, that have been mahogany, with tarnished gilt- 
leather coverings, supporting massy silver inkstands 
long since dry; — the oaken wainscots hung with pic- 
tures of deceased governors and sub-governors, of 
Queene Anne,^ and the two first monarchs of the 
Brunswick dynasty;^ — huge charts, which subsequent 
discoveries have antiquated; — dusty maps of Mexico, 
dim as dreams, — and soundings of the Bay of Pan- 
ama ! — The long passages hung with buckets, ap- 
pended, in idle row, to walls, whose substance might 
defy any, short of the last, conflagration : — with vast 
ranges of cellarage under all, where dollars and pieces 
of eight once lay, an ' ' unsunned heap, ' ' ^ for Mam- 
mon * to have solaced his solitary heart withal, — long 
since dissipated, or scattered into air at the blast of 

the breaking of that famous Bubble.^ 

Such is the South-Sea House. At least, such it 
was forty years ago, when I knew it, — a magnificent 
relic ! What alterations may have been made in it 
since, I have had no opportunities of verifying. 
Time, I take for granted, has not freshened it. No 
wind has resuscitated the face of the sleeping waters. 
A thicker crust by this time stagnates upon it. The 
moths, that were then battening upon its obsolete 
ledgers and day-books, have rested from their depre- 



TEE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE 29 

dations, but other light generations have succeeded, 
making fine fretwork among their single and double 
entries. Layers of dust have accumulated (a super- 
f oetation of dirt ! ) upon the old layers, that seldom 
used to be disturbed, save by some curious finger, 
now and then, inquisitive to explore the mode of 
book-keeping in Queen Anne's reign; or, with less 
hallowed curiosity, seeking to unveil some of the mys- 
teries of that tremendous hqax, whose extent the 
petty peculators of our day look back upon with the 
same expression of incredulous admiration, and hope- 
less ambition of rivalry, as would become the puny 
face of modern conspiracy contemplating the Titan ^ 
size of Vaux's superhuman plot.^ 

Peace to the manes of the Bubble! Silence and 
destitution are upon thy walls, proud house, for a 
memorial! 

Situated as thou art, in the very heart of stirring 
and living commerce, — amid the fret and fever of 
speculation — with the Bank and the 'Change, and 
the India-house about thee, in the hey-dey of present 
prosperity, with their important faces, as it were, 
insulting thee, their poor neighbor out of business — 
to the idle and merely contemplative, — to such as 
me, old house ! there is a charm in thy quiet : — a 
cessation — a coolness from business — an indolence al- 
most cloistral — which is delightful! With what rev- 
erence have I paced thy great bare rooms and courts 
at eventide! They spoke of the past: — the shade of 
some dead accountant, with visionary pen in ear, 



30 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

would flit by me, stiff as in life. Living accounts and 
accountants puzzle me. I have no skill in figuring. 
But thy great dead tomes, which scarce three degen- 
erate clerks of the present day could lift from their 
enshrining shelves — with their old fantastic flourishes 
and decorative rubric interlacings — their sums in 
triple columniations, set down with formal super- 
fluity of ciphers — with pious sentences at the be- 
ginning, without which our religious ancestors never 
ventured to open a book of business, or bill of lading 
— the costly vellum covers of some of them almost 
persuading us that we are got into some better li- 
brary, — are very agreeable and edifying spectacles. 
I can look upon these defunct dragons with com- 
placency. Thy heavy, odd-shaped ivory-handled 
penknives (our ancestors had everything on a larger 
scale than we have hearts for) are as good as any- 
thing from Herculaneum.^ The pounce-boxes of our 
days have gone retrograde. 

The very clerks which I remember in the South- 
Sea House — I speak of forty years back — had an 
air very different from those in the public offices that 
I have had to do with since. They partook of the 
genius of the place ! 

They were mostly (for the establishment did not 
admit of superfluous salaries) bachelors. Generally 
(for they had not much to do) persons of a curious 
and speculative turn of mind. Old-fashioned, for a 
reason mentioned before. Humorists, for they were 
of all descriptions; and, not having been brought 



TEE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE 31 

together in early life (which has a tendency to as- 
similate the members of corporate bodies to each 
other), but for the most part, placed in this house 
in ripe or middle age, they necessarily carried into 
it their separate habits and oddities, unqualified, If I 
may so speak, as into a common stock. Hence they 
formed a sort of Noah's ark. Odd fishes. A lay- 
monastery. Domestic retainers in a great house, kept 
more for show than use. Yet pleasant fellows, full 
of chat — and not a few among them had- arrived at 
considerable proficiency on the German flute. 

The cashier at that time was one Evans,^ a Cambro- 
Briton.^ He had something of the choleric complexion 
of his countrymen stamped on his visage, but was a 
worthy sensible man at bottom. He wore his hair, 
to the last, powdered and frizzed out, in the fashion 
which I remember to have seen in caricatures of what 
were termed, in my young days, Maccaronies.^ He 
was the last of that race of beaux. Melancholy as a 
gib-cat over his counter all the forenoon, I think I 
see him, making up his cash (as they call it) with 
tremulous fingers, as if he feared every one about 
him was a defaulter; in his hypochondry ready to 
imagine himself one ; haunted, at least, with the idea 
of the possibility of his becoming one : his tristful 
visage clearing up a little over his roast neck of veal 
at Anderton's at two (where his picture still hangs, 
taken a little before his death by desire of the master 
of the coffee-house, which he had frequented for the 
last five-and-twenty years), but not attaining the 



32 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

meridian of its animation till evening brought on 
the hour of tea and visiting. The simultaneous sound 
of his well-known rap at the door with the stroke of 
the clock announcing six, was a topic of never-failing 
mirth in the families which this dear old bachelor 
gladdened with his presence. Then was his forte, his 
glorified hour ! How would he chirp, and expand, 
over a muffin ! How would he dilate into secret his- 
tory ! His countryman, Pennant ^ himself, in particu- 
lar, could not be more eloquent than he in relation 
to old and new London — the site of old theaters, 
churches, streets gone to decay — where Rosamond's 
pond ^ stood — the Mulberry Gardens ^ — and the Con- 
duit in Cheap ^— -with many a pleasant anecdote, de- 
rived from paternal tradition, of those grotesque fig- 
ures which Hogarth has immortalized in his picture 
of Noon,^ — the worthy descendants of those heroic con- 
fessors, who, flying to this country, from the wrath 
of Louis the Fourteenth and his dragoons,*^ kept alive 
the flame of pure religion in the sheltering obscurities 
of Hog Lane, and the vicinity of the Seven Dials ! ^ 
Deputy, under Evans, was Thomas Tame.^ He had 
the air and stoop of a nobleman. You would have 
taken him for one, had you met him in one of the 
passages leading to Westminster Hall.^ By stoop, I 
mean that gentle bending of the body forwards, which, 
in great men, must be supposed to be the effect of 
an habitual condescending attention to the applica- 
tions of their inferiors. While he held you in con- 
verse, you felt strained to the height in the colloquy. 



THE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE 33 

The conference over, you were at leisure to smile 
at the comparative insignificance of the pretensions 
which had just awed you. His intellect was of the 
shallowest order. It did not reach to a saw or a 
proverb. His mind was in its original state of white 
paper.^ A sucking babe might have posed him. 
What was it then? Was he rich? Alas, no! 
Thomas Tame was very poor. Both he and his wife 
looked outwardly gentlefolks, when I fear all was 
not well at all times within. She had a neat meager 
person, which it was evident she had not sinned in 
over-pampering; but in its veins was noble blood. 
She traced her descent, by some labyrinth of relation- 
ship, which I never thoroughly understood, — much 
less can explain with any heraldic certainty at this 
time of day, — to the illustrious but unfortunate house 
of Derwentwater.^ This was the secret of Thomas's 
stoop. This was the thought — the sentiment — the 
bright solitary star of your lives, — ye mild and happy 
pair, — which cheered you in the night of intellect, 
and in the obscurity of your station! This was to 
you instead of riches, instead of rank, instead of 
glittering attainments: and it was worth them alto- 
gether. You insulted none with it; but, while you 
wore it as a piece of defensive armor only, no insult 
likewise could reach you through it. Decus et sola- 
men.^ 

Of quite another stamp was the then accountant, 
John Tipp.* He neither pretended to high blood, nor 
in good truth cared one fig about the matter. He 



34 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

"thought an accountant the greatest character in the 
world, and himself the greatest accountant in it." 
Yet John was not without his hobby. The fiddle re- 
lieved his vacant hours. He sang, certainly, with 
other notes than to the Orphean lyre.^ He did, in- 
deed, scream and scrape most abominably. His fine 
suite of official rooms in Threadneedle Street, which, 
without anything very substantial appended to them, 
were enough to enlarge a man's notions of himself 
that lived in them, (I know not who is the occupier 
of them now) resounded fortnightly to the notes of 
a concert of "sweet breasts" as our ancestors would 
have called them, culled from club-rooms and or- 
chestras — chorus singers^first and second violoncel- 
los — double basses — and clarionets — who ate his cold 
mutton, and drank his punch, and praised his ear. 
He sate like Lord Midas - among them. But at the 
desk Tipp was quite another sort of creature. Thence 
all ideas, that were purely ornamental, were ban- 
ished. You could not speak of anything romantic 
without rebuke. Politics were excluded. A news- 
paper was thought too refined and abstracted. The 
whole duty of man consisted in writing off dividend 
warrants. The striking of the annual balance in 
the company's books (which, perhaps, differed from 
the balance of last year in the sum of £25, Is. 6d.) 
occupied his days and nights for a month previous. 
Not that Tipp was blind to the deadness of things 
(as they call them in the city) in his beloved house, 
or did not sigh for a return of the old stirring days 



TEE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE 35 

when South Sea hopes were young — (he was indeed 
equal to the wielding of any the most intricate ac- 
counts of the most flourishing company in these or 
those days) : — but to a genuine accountant the dif- 
ference of proceeds is as nothing. The fractional 
farthing is as dear to his heart as the thousands 
which stand before it. He is the true actor, who, 
whether his part be a prince or a peasant, must act 
it with like intensity. With Tipp, form was every- 
thing. His life was formal. His actions seemed 
ruled with a ruler. His pen was not less erring 
than his heart. He made the best executor in the 
world : he was plagued with incessant executorships 
accordingly, which excited his spleen and soothed his 
vanity in equal ratios. He would swear (for Tipp 
swore) at the little orphans, whose rights he would 
guard with a tenacity like the grasp of the dying 
hand, that commended their interests to his protec- 
tion. With all this there was about him a sort of 
timidity — (his few enemies used to give it a worse 
name) — a something which in reverence to the dead, 
we will place, if you please, a little on this side of 
the heroic. Nature certainly had been pleased to 
endow John Tipp with a sufficient measure of the 
principle of self-preservation. There is a cowardice 
which we do not despise, because it has nothing base 
or treacherous in its elements; it betrays itself, not 
you: it is mere temperament; the absence of the 
romantic and the enterprising; it sees a lion in the 
way, and will not, with Fo-rtinbras,^ "greatly find 



36 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

quarrel in a straw, ' ' ^ when some supposed honor is at 
stake. Tipp never mounted the box of a stage-coach 
in his life; or leaned against the rails of a balcony; 
or walked upon the ridge of a parapet; or looked 
down a precipice ; or let off a gun ; or went upon a 
water-party ; or would willingly let you go if he could 
have helped it : neither was it recorded of him, that 
for lucre, or for intimidation, he ever forsook friend 
or principle. 

Whom next shall we summon from the dusty dead,^ 
in whom common qualities become uncommon? Can 
I forget thee, Henry Man,^ the wit, the polished man 
of letters, the author, of the South-Sea House? who 
never enter edst thy office in a morning or quittedst it 
in mid-day (what didst thou in an office?) without 
some quirk that left a sting! Thy gibes and thy 
jokes are now extinct, or survive but in two forgotten 
volumes, which I had the good fortune to rescue from 
a stall in Barbican,* not three days ago, and found 
thee terse, fresh, epigrammatic, as alive. Thy wit is 
a little gone by in these fastidious days — thy topics 
are staled by the ' ' new-bom gauds " ^ of the time : — 
but great thou used to be. in Public Ledgers, and in 
Chronicles,^ upon Chatham, and Shelburne, and Kock- 
ingham, and Howe, and Burgoyne, and Clinton,^ and 
the war which ended in the tearing from Great Britain 
her rebellious colonies, — and Keppel, and Wilkes, and 
Sawbridge, and Bull, and Dunning, and Pratt, and 
Richmond ^ — and such small politics. 

A little less facetious, and a great deal more ob- 



THE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE 37 

streperous, was fine rattling, rattleheaded Plumer.^ 
He was descended, — not in a right line, reader (for 
his lineal pretensions, like his personal, favored a 
little of the sinister bend) — from the Plumers of 
Hertfordshire. So tradition gave him out; and cer- 
tain family features not a little sanctioned the opin- 
ion. Certainly old Walter Plumer (his reputed 
author) had been a rake in his days, and visited 
much in Italy, and had seen the world. He was 
uncle, bachelor-uncle, to the fine old whig still living,^ 
who has represented the county in so many successive 
parliaments, and has a fine old mansion near Ware. 
Walter flourished in George the Second's days,^ and 
was the same who was summoned before the House of 
Commons about a business of franks, with the old 
Duchess of Marlborough. You may read of it in 
Johnson's "Life of Cave."* Cave came off cleverly 
in that business. It is certain our Plumer did noth- 
ing to discountenance the rumor. He rather seemed 
pleased whenever it was, with all gentleness, insin- 
uated. But, besides his family pretensions, Plumer 

was an engaging fellow, and sang gloriously. 

Not so sweetly sang Plumer as thou sangest, mild, 

childlike, pastoral M ^ ; a flute's breathing less 

divinely whispering than thy Arcadian melodies,^ 
when, in tones worthy of Arden, thou didst chant 
that song sung by Amiens to the banished Duke,"^ 
which proclaims the winter wind more lenient than 
for a man to be ungrateful. Thy sire was old surly 
M , the unapproachable churchwarden of Bishops- 



38 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

gate. He knew not what he did, when he begat thee, 
like spring, gentle offspring of blustering winter: — 
only unfortunate in thy ending, which should have 
been mild, conciliatory, swan-like. 

Much remains to sing. Many fantastic shapes rise 
up, but they must be mine in private : — already I 
have fooled the reader to the top of his bent; — else 
could I omit that strange creature Woollet, who ex- 
isted in trying the question, and bought litigations f — 
and still stranger, inimitable, solemn Hepworth, from 
whose gravity Newton ^ might have deduced the law 
of gravitation. How profoundly would he nib a pen 
— with what deliberation would he wet a wafer ! 

But it is time to close^night's wheels are rattling 
fast over me — it is proper to have done with this 
solemn mockery. 

Reader, what if I have been playing with thee 
all this while — peradventure the very names, which 
I have summoned up before thee, are fantastic — 
insubstantial — like Henry Pimpernel, and old John 
Naps of Greece : 

Be satisfied that something answering to them has 
had a being. Their importance is from the past. 

OXFORD IN THE VACATION 

Casting a preparatory glance at the bottom of this 
article — as the wary connoisseur in prints, with cur- 
sory eye (which, while it reads, seems as though it 
reads not), never fails to consult the quis sculpsit^ 



OXFORD IN THE VACATION 39 

in the corner, before lie pronounces some rare piece 

to be a Vivares, or a Woollet ^ methinks I hear you 

exclaim, Reader, who is Eliaf 

Because in my last I tried to divert thee with some 
half -forgotten humors of some old clerks defunct, in 
an old house of business, long since gone to decay, 
doubtless you have already set me down in your mind 

as one of the selfsame college a votary of the desk 

— a notched and cropt scrivener — one that sucks his 
sustenance, as certain sick people are said to do, 
through a quill. 

Well, I do agnize something of the sort, I confess 
that it is my humor, my fancy — in the forepart of 
the day, when the mind of your man of letters re- 
quires some relaxation — (and none better than such 
as at first, sight seems most abhorrent from his be- 
loved studies) — ^to while away some good hours of 
my time in the contemplation of indigos, cottons, raw 
silks, piece-goods, flowered or otherwise. In the first 
place * * * and then it sends you home with 
such increased appetite to your books * * * not 
to say, that your outside sheets, and waste wrappers 
of foolscap, do receive into them, most kindly and 
naturally, the impression of sonnets, epigrams, essays 
— so that the very parings of a counting-house are, 
in some sort, the settings up of an author. The 
enfranchised quill, that has plodded all the morning 
among the cart rucks of figures and ciphers, frisks 
and curvets so at its ease over the flowery carpet- 
ground of a midnight dissertation. — It feels its pro- 



40 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

motion. ***** go that you see, upon the 
whole, the literary dignity of Elia is very little, if 
at all, compromised in the condescension. 

Not that, in my anxious detail of the many com- 
modities incidental to the life of a public office, I 
would be thought blind to certain flaws, which a cun- 
ning carper might be able to pick in this Joseph's 
vest. And here I must have leave, in the fulness of 
my soul, to regret the abolition, and doing-away-with 
altogether, of those consolatory interstices, and sprin- 
klings of freedom, through the four seasons, — the red- 
letter days,^ now become, to all intents and purposes, 
dead-letter days. There was Paul, and Stephen, and 
Barnabas — 

Andrew and John, men famous in old times 2 

— we were used to keep all their days holy, as long 
back as I was at school at Christ's.^ I remember their 
effigies, by the same token, in the old Basket Prayer 

Book.* There hung Peter in his uneasy posture ^ 

holy Bartlemy in the troublesome act of flaying,^ 
after the famous Marsyas by Spagnoletti ^ 1 hon- 
ored them all, and could almost have wept the defalca- 
tion of Iscariot — so much did we love to keep holy 
memories sacred : — only methought I a little grudged 
at the coalition of the better Jude ^ with Simon — 
clubbing (as it were) their sanctities together, to 
make up one poor gaudy-day between them — as an 
economy unworthy of the dispensation. 

These were bright visitations in a scholar's and a 



OXFORD IN THE VACATION 41 

clerk's life — ''far off their coming shone." ^ — I was as 
good as an almanac in those days. I could have told 
you such a saint 's-day falls out next week, or the 
week after. Peradventure the Epiphany,^ by some 
periodical infelicity, would, once in six years, merge 
in a Sabbath. Now am I little better than one of 
the profane. Let me not be thought to arraign the 
wisdom of my civil superiors, who have judged the 
further observation of these holy tides to be papistical, 
superstitious. Only in a custom of such long stand- 
ing, methinks, if their Holinesses the Bishops had, 

in decency, been first sounded ^but I am wading 

out of my depths. I am not the man to decide the 

limits of civil and ecclesiastical authority 1 am 

plain Elia — no Selden, nor Archbishop Usher ^ — 
though at present in the thick of their books, here 
in the heart of learning, under the shadow of the 
mighty Bodley.* 

I can here play the gentleman, enact the student. 
To such a one as myself, who has been defrauded 
in his young years of the sweet food of academic 
institution, nowhere is so pleasant, to while away a 
few idle weeks at, as one or other of the Universities. 
Their vacation, too, at this time of the year, falls in 
so pat with ours. Here I can take my walks unmo- 
lested, and fancy myself of what degree or standing 
I please. I seem admitted ad eundem.^ I fetch up 
past opportunities. I can rise at the chapel-bell, and 
dream that it rings for me. In moods of humility 
I can be a Sizar, or a Servitor. When the peacock 



42 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

vein rises, I strut a Gentleman Commoner. In graver 
moments, I proceed Master of Arts. Indeed I do not 
think I am much unlike that respectable character. 
I have seen your dim-eyed vergers, and bed-makers 
in spectacles, drop a bow or curtsy, as I pass, wisely 
mistaking me for something of the sort. I go about 
in black, which favors the notion. Only in Christ 
Church's reverend quadrangle I can be content to 
pass for nothing short of a Seraphic Doctor. 

The walks at these times are so much one's own, — 
the tall trees of Christ's, the groves of Magdalen!^ 
The halls deserted, and with open doors, inviting one 
to slip in unperceived, and pay a devoir to some 
Founder, or noble or royal Benefactress (that should 
have been ours) whose portrait seems to smile upon 
their over-looked beadsman, and to adopt me for 
their own. Then, to take a peep in by the way at the 
butteries, and sculleries, redolent of antique hospital- 
ity: the immense caves of kitchens, kitchen fire- 
places, cordial recesses; ovens whose first pies were 
baked four centuries ago ; and spits which have cooked 
for Chaucer ! - Not the meanest minister among the 
dishes but is hallowed to me through his imagination, 
and the Cook goes forth a Manciple. 

Antiquity! thou wondrous charm, where art thou? 
that, being nothing, art every thing! When thou 
wert, thou wert not antiquity — then thou wert noth- 
ing, but hadst a remoter antiquity, as thou called 'st 
it, to look back to with blind veneration ; thou thyself 
being to thyself flat, jejune, modern! What mystery 



OXFOBD IN THE VACATION 43 

lurks in this retroversion ? or what half Januses ^ * 
are we, that cannot look forward with the same idol- 
atry with which we for ever revert ! the mighty future 
is as nothing, being everything! the past is every- 
thing, being nothing! 

What were thy dark ages? Surely the sun rose as 
brightly then as now, and man got him to his work in 
the morning. Why is it that we can never hear men- 
tion of them without an accompanying feeling, as 
though a palpable obscure had dimmed the face of 
things, and that our ancestors wandered to and fro 
groping ! 

Above all thy rarities, old Oxenford,^ what do most 
arride and solace me, are thy repositories of molder- 

ing learning, thy shelves 

What a place to be in is an old library! It seems 
as though all the souls of all the writers that have 
bequeathed their labors to these Bodleians, were re- 
posing here, as in some dormitory, or middle state. 
I do not want to handle, to profane the leaves, their 
winding-sheets. I could as soon dislodge a shade. I 
seem to inhale learning, walking amid their foliage; 
and the odor of their old moth-scented coverings is 
fragrant as the first bloom of those sciential apples 
which grew amid the happy orchard. 

Still less have I curiosity to disturb the elder repose 
of MSS. Those varim lectiones ^ so tempting to the 
more erudite palates, do but disturb and unsettle my 
faith. I am no Herculanean raker.* The credit of 

* Januses of one face. — Sir Thomas Browne. 



44 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

the three witnesses might have slept unimpeached 
for me. I leave these curiosities to Porson, and to 
G. D.^ — whom, by the way, I found busy as a moth 
over some rotten archive, rummaged out of some 
seldom-explored press, in a nook at Oriel.^ With long 
poring, he is grown almost into a book. He stood as 
passive as one by the side of the old shelves. I longed 
to new-coat him in Russia, and assign him his place. 
He might have mustered for a tall Scapula.^ 

D. is assiduous in his visits to these seats of learn- 
ing. No inconsiderable portion of his moderate for- 
tune, I apprehend, is consumed in journeys between 
them and Clifford's Inn ^ — where, like a dove on the 
asp 's nest, he has long taken up his unconscious abode, 
amid an incongruous assembly of attorneys, attor- 
neys' clerks, apparitors, promoters, vermin of the 
law, among whom he sits, * ' in calm and sinless peace. ' ' 
The fangs of the law pierce him not — the winds of 
litigation blow over his humble chambers — ^the hard 
sheriff's officer moves his hat as he passes — legal nor 
illegal discourtesy touches him — ^none thinks of offer- 
ing violence or injustice to him — ^you would as soon 
''strike an abstract idea." 

D. has been engaged, he tells me, through a course 
of laborious years, in an investigation into all curious 
matter connected with the two Universities; and has 
lately lit upon a MS. collection of charters, relative 

to C , by which he hopes to settle some disputed 

points — particularly that long controversy between 
them as to priority of foundation. The ardor with 



OXFORD IN THE VACATION 45 

which he -engages in these liberal pursuits, I am 
afraid, has not met with all the encouragement it 

deserved, either here, or at C . Your caputs and 

heads of colleges, care less than anybody else about 
these questions. — Contented to suck the milky foun- 
tains of their Alma Maters, without inquiring into 
the venerable gentlewomen's years, they rather hold 
such curiosities to be impertinent — unreverend. 
They have their good glebe lands m manUf^ and care 
not much to rake into the title-deeds. I gather at 
least so much from other sources, for D. is not a man 
to complain. 

D. started like an unbroke heifer, when I inter- 
rupted him. A priori it was not very probable that 
we should have met in Oriel. But D. would have 
done the same, had I accosted him on the sudden in 
his own walks in Clifford's Inn, or in the Temple.^ 
In addition to a provoking shortsightedness (the ef- 
fect of late studies and watchings at the midnight 
oil) D. is the most absent of men. He made a call 
the other morning at our friend M. 's ^ in Bedford 
Square; and, finding nobody at home, was ushered 
into the hall, where, asking for pen and ink, with 
great exactitude of purpose he enters me his name 
in the book — which ordinarily lies about in such 
places, to record the failures of the untimely or un- 
fortunate visitor — and takes his leave with many cere- 
monies, and professions of regret. Some two or three 
hours after, his walking destinies returned him into 
the same neighborhood again, and again the quiet 



46 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

image of the fire-side circle at M. 's Mrs. M. pre- 
siding at it lilve a Queen Lar,^ with pretty A. S.^ 

at her side striking irresistibly on his fancy, he 

makes another call (forgetting that they were ''cer- 
tainly not to return from the country before that day 
week") and disappointed a second time, inquires 
for pen and paper as before : again the book Is 
brought, and in the line just above that in which he 
is about to print his second name (his re-script) — 
his first name (scarce dry) looks out upon him like 
another Sosia,^ or as if a man should suddenly en- 
counter his own duplicate ! — The effect may be con- 
ceived. T>. made many a good resolution against any 
such lapses in future. I hope he will not keep them 
too rigorously. 

For with G. D. — to be absent from the body, is 
sometimes (not to speak it profanely) to be present 
with the Lord. At the very tirae when, personally 
encountering thee, he passes on with no recognition 

or, being stopped, starts like a thing surprised — 

at that moment, reader, he is on Mount Tabor — or 
Parnassus ^ — or co-sphered with Plato — or, with Har- 
rington,^ framing ''immortal commonwealths" — de- 
vising some plan of amelioration to thy country, or 
thy species peradventure meditating some indi- 
vidual kindness or courtesy, to be done to thee thy- 
self, the returning consciousness of which made him 
to start so guiltily at thy obtruded personal pres- 
ence. 

D. is delightful anywhere, but he is at the best in 



CHRIST'S HOSPITAL 47 

such places as these. He cares not much for Bath. 
He is out of his element at Buxton, at Scarborough, 
or Harrowgate. The Cam and the Isis ^ are to him 
"better than all the waters of Damascus." ^ On the 
Muses' hill he is happy, and good, as one of the 
Shepherds on the Delectable Mountains ; ^ and when 
he goes about with you to show you the halls and 
colleges, you think you have with you the Interpreter 
at the House Beautiful.* 

CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE AND THIRTY 
YEARS AGO 

In Mr. Lamb 's ' ' Works, ' ' ^ published a year or two 
since, I find a magnificent eulogy on my old school,* 
such as it was, or now appears to him to have been, 
between the years 1782 and 1789.'^ It happens, very 
oddly, that my own standing at Christ's was nearly 
corresponding with his; and, with all gratitude to 
him for his enthusiasm for the cloisters, I think he 
has contrived to bring together whatever can be said 
in praise of them, dropping all the othe^ side of the 
argument most ingeniously. 

I remember L. at school; and can well recollect 
that he had some peculiar advantages, which I and 
others of his schoolfellows had not. His friends lived 
in town, and were near at hand; and he had the 
privilege of going to see them, almost as often as he 
wished, through some invidious distinction, which was 

* Recollections of Christ's Hospital. 



48 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

denied to us. The present worthy sub-treasurer to 
the Inner Temple can explain how that, happened. 
He had his tea and hot rolls in a morning, while we 
were battening upon our quarter of a penny loaf — 
our criig — moistened with attenuated small beer, in 
wooden piggins, smacking of the pitched leathern 
jack it was poured from. Our Monday's milk por- 
ritch, blue and tasteless, and the pease soup of Sat- 
urday, coarse and choking, were enriched for him 
with a slice of " extraordinary bread and butter, ' ' 
from the hot-loaf of the Temple. The Wednesday's 
mess of millet^ somewhat less repugnant — (we had 
three banyan to four meat days in the week) — ^was 
endeared to his palate with a lump of double-refined, 
and a smack of ginger (to make it go down the more 
glibly) or the fragrant cinnamon. In lieu of our 
half-pickled Sundays, or quite fresh boiled beef on 
Thursdays (strong as cat^o equina),^ with detestable 
marigolds floating in the pail to poison the broth — • 
our scanty mutton crags on Fridays — and rather more 
savory, but grudging, portions of the saiue flesh, rot- 
ten-roasted or rare, on the Tuesdays (the only dish 
which excited our appetites, and disappointed our 
stomachs, in almost equal proportion) — he had his 
hot plate of roast veal, or the more tempting griskin 
(exotics unknown to our palates), cooked in the pa- 
ternal* kitchen (a great thing), and brought him daily 
by his maid or aunt ! I remember the good old rela- 
tive (in whom love forbade pride) squatting do\vn 
upon some odd stone in a by-nook of the cloisters, 



CHRIST'S HOSPITAL 49 

disclosing the viands (of higher regale than those 
cates which the ravens ministered to the Tishbite) ; ^ 
and the contending passions of L. at the unfolding. 
There was love for the bringer; shame for the thing 
brought, and the manner of its bringing; sympathy 
for those who were too many to share in it; and, at 
top of all, hunger (eldest, strongest of the passions!) 
predominant, breaking down of the stony fences of 
shame, and awkwardness, and a troubling over-con- 
sciousness. 

I was a poor friendless boy. My parents, and those 
who should care for me, were far away. Those few 
acquaintances of theirs, which they could reckon upon 
being kind to me in the great city, after a little forced 
notice, which they had the grace to take of me on 
my first arrival in town, soon grew tired of my holi- 
day visits. They seemed to them to recur too often, 
though I thought them few enough ! and one after 
another, they all failed me, and I felt myself alone 
among six hundred playmates. 

O, the cruelty of separating a poor lad from his 
early homestead ! The yearnings which I used to 
have towards it in those unfledged years ! How, in 
my dreams, would my native town (far in the west) 
come back, with its church, and trees, and faces ! 
How I would wake weeping, and in the anguish of 
my heart exclaim upon sweet Calne in Wiltshire ! ^ 

To this late hour of my life, I trace impressions 
left by the recollection of those friendless holidays. 
The long warm days of summer never return but they 



50 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

bring with them a gloom from the haunting memory 
of those whole-day -leaves, when, by some strange ar- 
rangement, we were turned out, for the live-long day, 
upon our own hands, whether we had friends to go 
to, or none. I remember those bathing excursions 
to the New River, which L. recalls with such relish, 
better, I think, than he can — for he was a home-seek- 
ing lad, and did not much care for such water- 
pastimes : — How merrily we would sally forth into the 
fields; and strip under the first warmth of the sun; 
and wanton like young dace in the streams ; getting 
us appetites for noon, which those of us that were 
penniless (our scanty morning crust long since ex- 
hausted) had not the means of allaying — while the 
cattle, and the birds, and the fishes, were at feed about 
us, and we had nothing to satisfy our cravings — the 
very beauty of the day, and the exercise of the 
pastime, and the sense of liberty, setting a keener 
edge upon them ! — How faint and languid, finally we 
would return, towards nightfall, to our desired morsel, 
half -rejoicing, half -reluctant, that the hours of our 
uneasy liberty had expired ! 

It was worse in the days of winter, to go prowling 
about the streets objectless — shivering at cold win- 
dows of print-shops, to extract a little amusement ; or 
haply, as a last resort, in the hope of a little novelty, 
to pay a fifty-times repeated visit (where our in- 
dividual faces should be as well known to the warden 
as those of his own charges) to the Lions in the 



CHRIST'S HOSPITAL 51 

Tower ^ — to whose levee, by courtesy immemorial, we 
had a prescriptive title to admission. 

L.'s governor^ (so we called the patron who pre- 
sented us to the foundation) lived in a manner under 
his paternal roof. Any complaint which he had to 
make was sure of being attended to. This was under- 
stood at Christ's, and was an effectual screen to him 
against the severity of masters, or worse tyranny of 
the monitors. The oppressions of these young brutes 
are heart-sickening to call to recollection. I have 
been called out of my bed, and waked for the purpose, 
in the coldest winter nights — and this not once, but 
night after night — in my shirt, to receive the disci- 
pline of a leathern thong, with eleven other sufferers, 
because it pleased my callow overseer, when there 
has been any talking heard after we were gone to bed, 
\ to make the six last beds in the dormitory, where the 
youngest children of us slept, answerable for an of- 
fense they neither dared to commit, nor had the 
power to hinder. — The same execrable tyranny drove 
the younger part of us from the fires, when our feet 
were perishing with snow; and under the cruellest 
penalties, forbade the indulgence of a drink of water, 
when we lay in sleepless summer nights, fevered with 
the season, and the day's sports. 

There was one H ,^ who, I learned, in after 

days, was seen expiating some maturer offense in the, 
hulks. (Do I flatter myself in fancying that this 
might be the planter of that name, who suffered 



52 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

at Nevis/ I think, or St. Kitts,- some few years 

since? My friend Tobin was the benevolent instru- 
ment of bringing him to the gallows.) This petty 
Nero ^ actually branded a boy, who had offended him, 
with a red-hot iron ; and nearly starved forty of us, 
with exacting contributions, to the one half of our 
bread, to pamper a young ass, which, incredible as it 
may seem, with the connivance of the nurse's 
daughter (a young flame of his) he had contrived to 
smuggle in, and keep upon the leads of the ward, as 
they called our dormitories. This game went on for 
better than a week, till the foolish beast, not able to 
fare well but he must cry roast meat — ^happier than 
Caligula's minion,* could he have kept his own coun- 
sel — but, foolisher, alas ! than any of his species in the 
fables — waxing fat, and kicking, in the fulness of 
bread, one unlucky minute would needs proclaim his 
good fortune to the world below; and, laying out his 
simple throat, blew such a ram's horn blast, as (top- 
pling down the walls of his own Jericho) set conceal- 
ment any longer at defiance. The client was dis- 
missed, with certain attentions, to Smithfield; but I 
never understood that the patron underwent any cen- 
sure on the occasion. This was in the stewardship of 
L. 's admired Perry. 

Under the same facile administration, can L. have 
forgotten the cool impunity with which the nurses 
used to carry away openly, in open platters, for their 
own tables, one out of two of every hot joint, which 
the careful matron had been seeing scrupulously 



CHRIST'S HOSPITAL 53 

weighed out for our dinners? These things were 
daily practiced in that magnificent apartment, which 
L. (grown connoisseur since, we presume) praises so 
highly for the grand paintings "by Verrio,^ and 
others," with which it is "hung round and adorned," 
But the sight of sleek, well-fed blue-coat boys ^ in pic- 
tures was, at that time, I believe, little consolatory to 
him, or us, the living ones, who saw the better part of 
our provisions carried away before our faces by har- 
pies; and ourselves reduced (with the Trojan in the 
hall of Dido) 

" To feed our mind with idle portraiture." 3 

L. has recorded the repugnance of the school to 
gags, or the fat of fresh beef boiled ; and sets it down 
to some superstition. But these unctuous morsels are 
never grateful to young palates (children are univer- 
sally fat-haters) and in strong, coarse, boiled meats, 
iinsalied, are detestable. A gag-eate?^ in our time was 
equivalent to a goule, and held in equal detestation. 
suffered under the imputation. 

" 'Twas said, 



He ate strange flesh," 4 

He was observed, after dinner, carefully to gather 
up the remnants left at his table (not many, nor very 
choice fragments, you may credit me) — and, in an 
especial manner, these disreputable morsels, which he 
would convey away, and secretly stow in the. settle 
that stood at his bed-side. None saw when he ate 



54 TEE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

them. It was rumored that he privately devoured 
them in the night. He was watched, but no traces of 
such midnight practices were discoverable. Some re- 
ported, that, on leave-days, he had been seen to carry 
out of the bounds a large blue check handkerchief, 
full of something. This then must be the accursed 
thing. Conjecture next w^as at work to imagine how 
he could dispose of it. Some said he sold it to the 
beggars. This belief generally prevailed. He went 
about moping. None spake to him. No one would 
play with him. He was excommunicated ; put out of 
the pale of the school. He was too powerful a boy to 
be beaten, but he underwent every mode of that nega- 
tive punishment, which is more grievous than many 
stripes. Still he persevered. At length he was ob- 
served by two of his school-fellows, who were de- 
termined to get at the secret, and had traced him one 
leave-day for that purpose, to enter a large worn-out 
building, such as there exist specimens of in Chan- 
cery Lane, which are let out to various scales of pau- 
perism with open door, and a common staircase. 
After him they silently slunk in, and followed by 
stealth up four flights, and saw him tap at a poor 
wicket, which was opened by an aged woman, meanly 
clad. Suspicion was now ripened into certainty. 
The informers had secured their victim. They had 
him in their toils. Accusation was formally prefer- 
red, and retribution most signal was looked for. Mr. 
Hathaway, the then steward (for this happened a 
little after my time), with that patient sagacity 



CHRIST'S HOSPITAL 55 

which tempered all his conduct, determined to in- 
vestigate the matter, before he proceeded to sentence. 
The result was, that the supposed mendicants, the re- 
ceivers or purchasers of the mysterious scraps, turned 

out to be the parents of , an honest couple come 

to decay, — whom this seasonable supply had, in all 
probability, saved from mendicancy; and that this 
young stork, at the expense of his own good name, 
had all this while been only feeding the old birds ! — 
The governors on this occasion, much to their honor, 
voted a present relief to the family of , and pre- 
sented him with a silver medal. The lesson which 
the steward read upon rash judgment, on the oc- 
casion of publicly delivering the medal to , I 

believe, would not be lost upon his auditory. — I had 

left school then, but I well remember . He was a 

tall shambling youth, with a cast in his eye, not at all 
calculated to conciliate hostile prejudices. I have 
since seen him carrying a baker's basket. I think I 
heard he did not do quite so well by himself, as he had 
done by the old folks. 

I was a hypochondriac lad; and the sight of a boy 
in fetters, upon the day of my first putting on the 
blue clothes, was not exactly fitted to assuage the 
natural terrors of initiation. I was of tender years, 
barely turned of seven ; and had only read of such 
things in books, or seen them but in dreams. I was 
told he had run away. This was the punishment for 
the first offense. — As a novice I was soon after taken 
to see the dungeons. These were little, square, Bed- 



56 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

lam ^ cells, where a boy could just lie at length upon 
straw and a blanket — a mattress, I think, was after- 
wards substituted — ^with a peep of light, let in askance, 
from a prison-orifice at top, barely enough to read by. 
Here the poor boy was locked in by himself all day, 
without sight of any but the porter who brought him 
his bread and water — who might not speak to him; — 
or of the beadle, who came twice a week to call him 
out to receive his periodical chastisement, which was 
almost welcome, because it separated him for a brief 
interval from solitude : — and here he was shut up by 
himself of nights^ out of the reach of any sound, 
to suffer whatever horrors the weak nerves, and su- 
perstition incident to his time of life, might sub- 
ject him to.* This was the penalty for the second 
offense. — Wouldst thou like, reader, to see what be- 
came of him in the next degree? 

The culprit, who had been a third time an of- 
fender, and whose expulsion was at this time deemed 
irreversible, was brought forth, as at some solemn 
auto da /e/arrayed in uncouth and most appalling at- 
tire — all trace of his late "watchet weeds" carefully 
effaced, he was exposed in a jacket, resembling those 
which London lamplighters formerly delighted in, 
with a c^p of the same. The effect of this divestiture 

* One or two instances of lunacy, or attempted suicide, ac- 
cordingly, at length convinced the governors of the impolicy 
of this part of the sentence, and the r^jidnight torture to the 
spirits Avas dispensed with. — This fancy of dungeons for chil- 
dren was a sprout of Howard's brain; for which (saving 
the reverence due to Holy Paul), methinksy I could willingly 
spit upon his statue. 



CHRIST'S HOSPITAL 57 

was such as the ingenious devisers of it could have 
anticipated. With his pale and frighted features, it 
was as if some of those disfigurements in Dante ^ had 
seized upon him. In this disguisement he was 
brought into the hall (L/s favorite state-room) , where 
awaited him the whole number of his schoolfellows, 
whose joint lessons and sports he was thenceforth to 
share no more ; the awful presence of the steward, to 
be seen for the last time; of the executioner beadle, 
clad in his state robe for the occasion; and of two 
faces more, of direr import, because never but in 
these extremities visible. These were governors; two 
of whom, by choice, or charter, were always ac- 
customed to officiate, at these Ultima Supplicia,'^ not 
to mitigate (so at least we understood it), but to 
enforce the uttermost stripe. Old Bamber Gascoigne, 
and Peter Aubert, I remember, were colleagues on 
one occasion, when the beadle turning rather pale, a 
glass of brandy was ordered to prepare him for the 
mysteries. The scourging was, after the old Roman 
fashion, long and stately. The lictor accompanied 
the criminal quite round the hall. We were generally 
too faint with attending to the previous disgusting 
circumstances, to make accurate report with our eyes 
of the degree of corporal suffering inflicted. Report, 
of course, gave out the back knotty and livid. After 
scourging, he was made over, in his San Benito,^ to 
his friends, if he had any (but commonly such poor 
runagates were friendless), or to his parish officer, 
who, to enhance the effect of the scene, had his sta- 



58 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

tion allotted to him on the outside of the hall gate. 
These solemn pageantries were not played off so 
often as to spoil the general mirth of the community. 
We had plenty of exercise and recreation after school 
hours; and, for myself, I must confess, that I was 
never happier, than in them. The Upper and Lower 
Grammar Schools were held in the same room ; and an 
imaginary line only divided their bounds. Their 
character was as different as that of the inhabitants 
on the two sides of the Pyrenees.^ The Eev. James 
Boyer was the Upper Master: but the Rev. Matthew 
Field presided over that portion of the apartment, of 
which I had the good fortune to be a member. We 
lived a life as careless as birds. We talked and did 
just what we pleased, and nobody molested us. We 
carried an accidence, or a grammar, for form; but, 
for any trouble it gave us, we might take two years 
in getting through the verbs deponent, and another 
two in forgetting all that we had learned about them. 
There was now and then the formality of saying a 
lesson, but if you had not learned it, a brush across 
the shoulders (just enough to disturb a fly) was the 
sole remonstrance. Field never used the rod; and 
in truth he wielded the cane with no great good will 
— holding it ''like a dancer." It looked in his hands 
rather like an emblem than an instrument of author- 
ity ; and an emblem, too, he was ashamed of. He was 
a good easy man, that did not care to ruffle his own 
peace, nor perhaps set any great consideration upon 
the value of juvenile time. He came among us, now 



CHRIST'S HOSPITAL 59 

and then, but often stayed away whole days from us ; 
and when he came, it made no difference to us — ^he 
had his private room to retire to, the short time he 
stayed, to be out of the sound of our noise. Our 
mirth and uproar went on. We had classics of our 
own, without being beholden to "insolent Greece or 
haughty Rome, ' ' ^ that passed current among us — 
Peter Wilkins^ — the Adventures of the Hon. Capt. 
Robert Boyle — the Fortunate Blue Coat Boy — and 
the like. Or we cultivated a turn for mechanic or 
scientific operation; making little sun-dials of paper; 
or weaving those ingenious parentheses, called cat- 
cradles; or making dry peas to dance upon the end 
of a tin pipe ; or studying the art military over that 
laudable game "French and English," and a hun- 
dred other such devices to pass away the time — ^mix- 
ing the useful with the agreeable — as would have 
made the souls of Rousseau and John Locke ^ chuckle 
to have seen us. 

Matthew Field belonged to that class of modest 
divines who affect to mix in equal proportion the 
gentleman, the scholar, and the Christian; but, I know 
not how, the first ingredient is generally found to be 
the predominating dose in the composition. He was 
engaged in gay parties, or with his courtly bow at 
some episcopal levee, when he should have been at- 
tending upon us. He had for many years the clas- 
sical charge of a hundred children, during the four or 
five first years of their education ; and his very highest 
form seldom proceeding further than two or three of 



60 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

the introductory fables of Phagclrus.^ How things 
were suffered to go on thus, I cannot guess. Boyer, 
who was the proper person to have remedied these 
abuses, always affected, perhaps felt, a delicacy in 
interfering in a province not strictly his own. I 
have not been without my suspicions, that he was not 
altogether displeased at the contrast we presented to 
his end of the school. We were a sort of Helots ^ to 
his young Spartans. He would sometimes, with ironic 
deference, send to borrow a rod of the Under Master, 
and then, with Sardonic grin, observe to one of his 
upper boys, "how neat and fresh the twigs looked." 
While his pale students were battering their brains 
over Xenophon and Plato,^ with a silence as deep as 
that enjoined by the Samite,* we were enjoying our- 
selves at our ease in our little Goshen.^ We saw a 
little into the secrets of his discipline, and the pros- 
pect did but the more reconcile us to our lot. His 
thunders rolled innocuous for us; his storms came 
near, but never touched us; contrary to Gideon's 
miracle,^ while all around us were drenched, our 
fleece was dry.* His boys turned out the better 
scholars ; we, I suspect, have the advantage in temper. 
His pupils cannot speak of him without something 
of terror allaying their gratitude; the remembrance 
of Field comes back with all the soothing images of 
indolence, and summer slumbers, and work like play, 
and innocent idleness, and Elysian exemptions, and 
life itself a ''playing holiday." 

* Cowley. 



CHRIST'S HOSPITAL 61 

Though sufficiently removed from the jurisdiction 
of Boyer, we were near enough (as I have said) to 
understand a little of his system. We occasionally 
heard sounds of the Ululantes,^ and caught glances of 
Tartarus.^ B. was a rabid pedant. His English style 
was cramped to barbarism. His Easter anthems (for 
his duty obliged him to those periodical flights) were 
grating as scrannel pipes.* ^ — He would laugh, ay, 
and heartily, but then it must be at Flaccus's quibble 

about Eex * or at the tristis severitas in vultu, or 

inspicere in patinas, of Terence ^ — thin jests, which at 
their first broaching could hardly have had vis enough 
to move a Roman muscle. — He had two wigs, both 
pedantic, but of different omen. The one serene, 
smiling, fresh powdered, betokening a mild day. The 
other, an old discolored, unkempt, angry caxon, de- 
noting frequent and bloody execution. "Woe to the 
school, when he made his morning appearance in his 
passy, or passionate wig. No comet expounded surer. 
J. B. had a heavy hand. I have known him double 
his knotty fist at a poor trembling child (the ma- 
ternal milk hardly dry upon its lips) with a "Sir- 
rah, do you presume to set your wits at me?" — 

* In this and every thing B. was the antipodes of his co- 
adjutor. While the former was digging his brains for crude 
anthems, worth a pig-nut, F. would be recreating his gentle- 
manly fancy in the more flowery walks of the Muses. A 
little dramatic effusion of his, under the name of Vertumnus 
and Pomona, is not yet forgotten by the chroniclers of that 
sort of literature. It was accepted by Garrick, but the town 
did not give it their sanction. — B. used to say of it, in a way 
of half-compliment, half-irony, that it "yv'as tqq glc^emcal for 
representation. 



62 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Nothing was more common than to see him make a 
headlong entry into the schoolroom, from his inner 
recess, or library, and, with turbulent eye, singling 
out a lad, roar out, "Od's my life. Sirrah" (his 
favorite adjuration), "I have a great mind to whip 
you," — then, with as sudden a retracting impulse, 
fling back into his lair — and, after a cooling lapse 
of some minutes (during which all but the culprit 
had totally forgotten the context) drive headlong 
out again, piecing out his imperfect sense, as if it 
had been some Devil's Litany, with the expletory yell 
— '"and I wiiAj too.'' — In his gentler moods, when 
the rahidus furor ^ was assuaged, he had resort to an 
ingenious method, peculiar, for what I have heard, to 
himself, of whipping the boy, and reading the De- 
bates, at the same time ; a paragraph, and a lash be- 
tween; which in those times, when parliamentary 
oratory was most at a height and flourishing in 
these realms, was not calculated to impress the pa- 
tient with a veneration for the diifuser graces of 
rhetoric. 

Once, and but once, the uplifted rod was known to 
fall ineffectual from his hand — when droll squinting 

W having been caught putting the inside of the 

master's desk to a use for which the architect had 
clearly not designed it, to justify himself, with great 
simplicity averred, that he did not know that the 
thing had been forewarned. This exquisite irrecog- 
nition of any law antecedent to the oral or declaratory 
struck so irresistibly upon the fancy of all who heard 



CHRIST'S HOSPITAL 63 

it (the pedagogue himself not excepted) that remis- 
sion was unavoidable. 

L. has given credit to B.'s great merits as an in- 
structor. Coleridge, in his literary life, has pro- 
nounced a more intelligible and ample encomium on 
them. The author of the Country Spectator ^ doubts 
not to compare him with the ablest teachers of an- 
tiquity. Perhaps we cannot dismiss him better than 
with the pious ejaculation of C. — when he heard that 
his old master was on his death-bed — ' ' Poor J. B. ! — 
may all his faults be forgiven; and may he be wafted 
to bliss by little cherub boys, all head and wings, with 
no 'bottoms to reproach his sublunary infirmities." 

Under him were many good and sound scholars 
bred. — First Grecian of my time was Lancelot Pepys 
Stevens, kindest of boys and men, since Co-grammar- 
master (and inseparable companion) with Dr. 

T e.^ What an edifying spectacle did this brace 

of friends present to those who remembered the anti- 
socialities of their predecessors ! — You never met the 
one by chance in the street without a wonder, which 
was quickly dissipated by the almost immediate sub- 
appearance of the other. Generally arm in arm, 
these kindly coadjutors lightened for each other the 
toilsome duties of their profession, and when, in ad- 
vanced age, one found it convenient to retire, the 
other was not long in discovering that it suited him to 
lay down the fasces also. Oh, it is pleasant, as it is 
rare, to find the same arm linked in yours at forty, 
which at thirteen helped it to turn over the Cicero De 



64 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Amicitia,^ or some tale of Antique Friendship, which 
the young heart even then was burning to anticipate ! 

— Co-Grecian with S. was Th ,^ who has since 

executed with ability various diplomatic functions at 

the Northern courts. Th was a tall, dark, 

saturnine youth, sparing of speech, with raven locks. 
— Thomas Fanshaw Middleton followed him (now 
Bishop of Calcutta) a scholar and a gentleman in his 
teens. He has the reputation of an excellent critic; 
and is author (besides the Country Spectator) of a 
Treatise on the Greek Article, against Sharpe — M. 
is said to bear his miter high in India, where the 
regni novitas ^ (I dare say) sufficiently justifies the 
bearing. A humility quite as primitive as that of 
Jewel or Hooker * might not be exactly fitted to im- 
press the minds of those Anglo-Asiatic diocesans with 
a reverence for home institutions, and the church 
which those fathers watered. The manners of M. at 
school, though firm, were mild, and unassuming. — 
Next to M. (if not senior to him) was Richards, 
author of the Aboriginal Britons, the most spirited of 
the Oxford Prize Poems; a pale, studious Grecian. — 

Then followed poor S ,^ ill-fated M !« of 

these the Muse is silent. 

Finding some of Edward's race 
Unhappy, pass their annals by. 7 

Come back into memory, like as thou wert in the 
day-spring of thy fancies, with hope like a fiery 
column before thee — the dark pillar not yet turned — 
Samuel Taylor Coleridge — Logician, Metaphysician, 



CHRIST'8 HOSPITAL 65 

Bard! — How have I seen tlie casual passer through 
the Cloisters stand still, entranced with admiration 
(while he weighed the disproportion between the 
speech and the garh of the young Mirandula)/ to hear 
thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the 
mysteries of Jamblichus, or Plotinus ^ (for even in 
those years thou ,waxedst not pale at such philo- 
sophic draughts), or reciting Homer in his Greek, or 
Pindar ^ ^while the walls of the old Grey Friars re- 
echoed to the accents of the inspired charity -hoy! 
Many were the "wit-combats" (to dally awhile with 
the words of old Fuller) between him and C. V. Le 

G ,* "which two I behold like a Spanish great 

gallion, and an English man-of-war; Master Cole- 
ridge, like the former, was built far higher in learn- 
ing, solid, but slow in his performances. C. V. L., 
with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but 
lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, 
and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of 
his wit and invention. ' ' 

Nor shalt thou, their compeer, be quickly forgot- 
ten, Allen, with the cordial smile, and still more cor- 
dial laugh, with which thou wert wont to make the 
old Cloisters shake, in thy cognition of some poignant 
jest of theirs; or the anticipation of some more ma- 
terial, and, peradventure, practical one, of thine own. 
Extinct are those smiles, with that beautiful counte- 
nance, with which (for thou wert the Nireus for- 
mosus^ of the school), in the days of thy maturer 
waggery, thou didst disarm the wrath of infuriated 



66 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

town-damsel, who, incensed by provoking pinch, turn- 
ing tigress-like round, suddenly converted by thy 
angel-look, exchanged the half-formed terrible 
^'bl /^ for a gentler greeting — ^^ bless thy hand- 
some faceT' 

Next follow two, who ought to be now alive, and 

the friends of Elia — the junior Le G and F ; ^ 

who impelled, the former by a roving temper, the 
latter by too quick a sense of neglect — ill capable of 
enduring the slights poor Sizars are sometimes sub- 
ject to in our seats of learning — exchanged their Alma 
Mater for the camp ; perishing, one by climate, and 
one on the plains t)f Salamanca : ^— Le G san- 
guine, volatile, sweet-natured ; F dogged, faith- 
ful, anticipative of insult, warm-hearted, with some- 
thing of the old Roman height about him. 

Fine, frank-hearted Fr ,^ the present master of 

Hertford, with Marmaduke T ,* mildest of Mis- 
sionaries — and both my good friends still — close the 
catalogue of Grecians in my time. 

THE TWO RACES OF MEN 

The human species, according to the best theory I 
can form of it, is composed of two distinct races, the 
men who borrow^ and the men who lend. To these 
two original diversities may be reduced all those im- 
pertinent classifications of Gothic and Celtic tribes, 
white men, black men, red men. All the dwellers 
upon earth, "Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites,"^ 



THE TWO RACES OF MEN 67 

flock hither, and do naturally fall in with one or other 
of these primary distinctions. The infinite superi- 
ority of the former, which I choose to designate as 
the great race, is discernible in their figure, port, and 
a certain instinctive sovereignty. The latter are born 
degraded. "He shall serve his brethren." There is 
something in the air of one of this cast, lean and sus- 
picious ; ^ contrasting with the open, trusting, gener- 
ous manner of the other. 

Observe who have been the greatest borrowers of 
all ages— Alcibiades—Falstaff— Sir Richard Steele— 
our late incomparable Brinsley 2— what a family like- 
ness in all four ! 

What a careless, even deportment hath your bor- 
rower! what rosy gills! what a beautiful reliance on 
Providence doth he manifest,— taking no more 
thought than lilies ! What contempt for money— ac- 
counting it (yours and mine especially) no better 
than dross! What a liberal confounding of those 
pedantic distinctions of me^m and tuum! ^ or rather, 
what a noble simplification of language (beyond 
Tooke),* resolving these supposed opposites into one 
clear, intelligible pronoun adjective !— What near ap- 
proaches doth he make to the primitive community, — 
to the extent of one-half of the principle at least !— 

He is the true taxer who ''calleth all the world up 
to be taxed;" and the distance is as vast between him 
and one of us, as subsisted betwixt the Augustan 
Majesty and the poorest obolary Jew that paid it 
tribute-pittance at Jerusalem !— His exactions, too. 



68 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

have such a cheerful, voluntary air ! So far removed 
from your sour parochial or state-gatherers, — those 
ink-horn varlets, who carry their want of welcome in 
their faces! He cometh to you with a smile, and 
troubleth you with no receipt; confining himself to 
no set season. Every day is his Candlemas, or his 
Feast of Holy Michael.^ He applieth the lene tormen- 
tum ^ of a pleasant look to your purse, — ^which to that 
gentle warmth expands her silken leaves, as naturally 
as the cloak of the traveler, for which sun and wind 
contended ! He is the true Propontic ^ which never 
ebbeth! The sea which taketh handsomely at each 
man's hand. In vain the victim, whom he delighteth 
to honor, struggles with destiny; he is in the net. 
Lend therefore cheerfully, man ordained to lend — 
that thou lose not in the end, with thy worldly penny, 
the reversion promised.. Combine not preposterously 
in thine own person the penalties of Lazarus and of 
Dives ! * — but, when thou seest the proper authority 
coming, meet it smilingly, a^ it were half-way. Come, 
a handsome sacrifice! See how light he makes of it! 
Strain not courtesies with a noble enemy. 

Eefiections like the foregoing were forced upon my 
mind by the death of my old friend, Ralph Bigod, 
Esq.,^ who departed this life on Wednesday evening; 
dying, as he had lived, without much trouble. He 
boasted himself a descendant from mighty ancestors 
of that name, who heretofore held ducal dignities in 
this realm. In his actions and sentiments he belied 
not the stock to which he pretended. Early in life 



THE TWO RACES OF MEN 69 

he found himself invested with ample revenues; 
which, with that noble disinterestedness which I have 
noticed as inherent in men of the great race, he took 
almost immediate measures entirely to dissipate and 
bring to nothing; for there is something revolting in 
the idea of a king holding a private purse; and the 
thoughts of Bigod were all regal. Thus furnished, 
by the very act of disf urnishment ; getting rid of 
the cumbersome luggage of riches, more apt (as one 
sings) 

To slacken virtue, and abate her edge,i 

Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise, 

he set forth, like some Alexander, upon his great 
enterprise, "borrowing and to borrow!" 

In his periegesis, or triumphant progress through- 
out this island, it has been calculated that he laid a 
tithe part of the inhabitants under contribution. I 
reject this estimate as greatly exaggerated : — but hav- 
ing had the honor of accompanying my friend, divers 
times, in his perambulations about this vast city, I 
own, I was greatly struck at first with the prodigious 
number of faces we met, who claimed a sort of re- 
spectful acquaintance with us. He was one day so 
obliging as to explain the phenomenon. It seems, 
these were his tributaries; feeders of his exchequer; 
gentlemen, his good friends (as he was pleased to ex- 
press himself), to whom he had occasionally been be- 
holden for a loan. Their multitudes did in no way 
disconcert him. He rather took a pride in numbering 



70 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

them; and, with Comus, seemed pleased to be 
' ' stocked with so fair a herd. " ^ 

With such sources, it was a wonder how he con- 
trived to keep his treasury always empty. He did 
it by force of an aphorism, which he had often in 
his mouth, that ''money kept longer than three days 
stinks. " So he made use of it while it was fresh. A 
good part he drank away (for he was an excellent toss- 
pot), some he gave away, the rest he threw away, 
literally tossing and hurling it violently from him — 
as boys do burrs, or as if it had been infectious, — 
into ponds or ditches, or deep holes, — inscrutable cav- 
ities of the earth; — or he would bury it (where he 
would never seek it again) by a river's side under 
some bank, which (he would facetiously observe) paid 
no interest — but out away from him it must go per- 
emptorily, as Hagar 's offspring ^ into the wilderness, 
while it was sweet. He never missed it. The streams 
were perennial which fed his fisc. When new sup- 
plies became necessary, the first person that had the 
felicity to fall in with him, friend or stranger, was 
sure to contribute to the deficiency. For Bigod had 
an undemahle way with him. He had a cheerful, 
open exterior, a quick jovial eye, a bald forehead, just 
touched with gray {cana fides). ^ He anticipated no 
excuse, and found none. And, waiving for a while 
my theory as to the great race, I would put it to the 
most untheorizing reader, who may at times have 
disposable coin in his pocket, whether it is not more 
repugnant to the kindliness of his nature to refuse 



THE TWO RACES OF MEN 71 

such a one as I am describing, than to say no to a 
poor petitionary rogue (your bastard borrower), who, 
by his mumping visnomy, tells you, that he expects 
nothing better ; and, therefore, whose preconceived no- 
tions and expectations you do in reality so much less 
shock in the refusal. 

When I think of this man ; his fiery glow of heart ; 
his swell of feeling; how magnificent, how ideal he 
was; how great at the midnight hour; and when I 
compare with him the companions with whom I have 
associated since, I grudge the saving of a few idle 
ducats, and think that I am fallen into the society of 
lenders, and little men. 

To one like Elia, whose treasures are rather cased 
in leather covers than closed in iron coffers, there 
is a class of alienators more formidable than that 
which I have touched upon; I mean your borrowers 
of hooks — those mutilators of collections, spoilers of 
the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes. 
There is Comberbatch,^ matchless in his depredations ! 

That foul gap in the bottom shelf facing you, like 
a great eye-tooth knocked out — (you are now with me 

in my little back study in Bloomsbury, reader!) 

with the huge Switzer-like tomes ^ on each side (like 
the Guildhall giants,^ in their reformed posture, 
guardant of nothing) once held the tallest of my 
folios. Opera Bonaventurce,^ choice and massy divinity, 
to which its two supporters (school divinity also, but 
of a lesser caliber, — Bellarmine, and Holy Thomas),^ 
showed but as dwarfs, — itself an Ascapart ! ^ — that 



72 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Comberbatch abstracted upon the faith of a theory 
he holds, which is more easy, I confess, for me to 
suffer by than to refute, namely, that "the title to 
property in a book (my Bonaventure, for instance), 
is in exact ratio to the claimant's powers of under- 
standing and appreciating the same." Should he go 
on acting upon this theory which of our shelves is 
safe? 

The slight vacuum in the left hand case^two 
shelves from the ceiling — scarcely distinguishable but 
by the quick eye of a loser was whilom the com- 
modious resting-place of Brown on Urn Burial/ C 
will hardly allege that he knows more about that 
treatise than I do, who introduced it to him, and was 
indeed the first (of the moderns) to discover its 
beauties — but so have I known a foolish lover to praise 
his mistress in the presence of a rival more qualified 
to carry her off than himself. — Just below Dodsley's 
dramas ^ want their fourth volume, where Vittoria 
Corombona is ! ^ The remainder nine are as distaste- 
ful as Priam's refuse sons, when the Fates horroived 
Hector.* Here stood the Anajomy of Melancholy,^ in 
sober state. — There loitered the Complete Angler ; ® 
quiet as in life, by some stream side. — In yonder nook, 
John Buncle,^ a widower- volume, with "eyes closed," 
mourns his ravished mate. 

One justice I must do my friend, that if he some- 
times, like the sea, sweeps away a treasure, at another 
time, sea-like, he throws up as rich an equivalent to 
match it. I have a small under-collection of this na- 



THE TWO RACES OF MEN 73 

ture (my friend's gatherings in his various calls), 
picked up, he has forgotten at what odd places, and 
deposited with as little memory at mine. I take in 
these orphans, the twice-deserted. These proselytes 
of the gate are welcome as the true Hebrews. There 
they stand in conjunction; natives, and naturalized. 
The latter seemed as little disposed to inquire out 
their true lineage as I am. — I charge no warehouse- 
room for these deodands, nor shall ever put myself 
to the ungentlemanly trouble of advertising a sale of 
them to pay expenses. 

To lose a volume to C.^ carries some sense and mean- 
ing in it. You are sure that he will make one hearty 
meal on your viands, if he can give no account of 
the platter after it. But what moved, thee, wayward, 
spiteful K.,^ to be so importunate to carry off with 
thee, in spite of tears and adjurations to thee to for- 
bear, the Letters of that princely woman, the thrice 
noble Margaret Newcastle ? ^ — ^knowing at the time, 
and knowing that I knew also, thou most assuredly 
wouldst never turn over one leaf of the illustrious 
folio : — what but the mere spirit of contradiction, and 
childish love of getting the better of thy friend ? — 
Then, worst cut of all! to transport it with thee to 
the Galilean land — 

Unworthy land to harbor such a sweetness, 
A virtue in which all ennobling thoughts dwelt, 
Pure thoughts, kind thoughts, high thoughts, her sex's 
wonder I 



74 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

liadst thou not thy play-books, and books of jests 



and fancies, abont thee, to keep thee merry, even as 
thou keepest all companies with thy quips and mirth- 
ful tales? — Child of the Green-room, it was un- 
kindly done of thee. Thy wife, too, that part-French, 
better-part Englishwoman ! — that she could fix upon 
no other treatise to bear away in kindly token of re- 
membering us, than the works of Fulke Greville, Lord 
Brook ^ — of which no Frenchman, nor woman of 
France, Italy, or England, was ever by nature con- 
stituted to comprehend a tittle ! Was there not Zim- 
merman on Solitude f ^ 

Reader, if haply thou art blessed with a moderate 
collection, be shy of showing it ; or if thy heart over- 
floweth to lend them, lend thy books ; but let it be to 
such a one as S. T. C. — he will return them (gen- 
erally anticipating the time appointed) with usury; 
enriched with annotations, tripling their value. I 
have had experience. Many are these precious MSS. 
of his — (in matter oftentimes, and almost in quantity 
not infrequently, vying with the originals) — in no 
very clerkly hand — legible in my Daniel ; ^ in old Bur- 
ton; in Sir Thomas Browne; and those abstruser 
cogitations of the Greville, now, alas ! wandering in 

Pagan lands 1 counsel thee, shut not thy heart, 

nor thy library, against S. T. C. 



NEW YEAR'S EVE 75 



NEW YEAR'S EYE 

Every man hath two birth-days; two days, at 
least, in every year, which set him upon revolving 
the lapse of time, as it affects his normal duration. 
The one is that which in an especial manner he 
termeth his. In the gradual desuetude of old ob- 
servances, this custom of solemnizing our proper 
birth-day hath nearly passed away, or is left to 
children, who reflect nothing at all about the matter, 
nor understand any thing in it beyond cake and 
orange. But the birth of a New Year is of an in- 
terest too wide to be pretermitted by king or 
cobbler. No one ever regarded the First of Jan- 
uary with indifference. It is that from which all 
date their time, and count upon what is left. It 
is. the nativity of our common Adam. 

Of all sound of all bells (bells, the music nighest 
bordering upon heaven) — most solemn and touching 
is the peal which rings out the Old Year. I never 
hear it without a gathering-up of my mind to a con- 
centration of all the images that have been diffused 
over the past twelvemonth; all I have done or suf- 
fered, performed or neglected — in that regretted 
time. I begin to know its worth, as when a person 
dies. It takes a personal color; nor was it a poetical 
flight in a contemporary, when he exclaimed 

I saw the skirts of the departing Year.2 



76 TBE ESSAYS- OF ELIA 

It is no more than what in sober sadness every one 
of us seems to be conscious of, in that awful leave- 
taking. I am sure I felt it, and all felt it with me, 
last night; though some of my companions affected 
rather to manifest an exhilaration at the birth of 
the coming year, than any very tender regrets for 
the decease of its predecessor. But I am none of 
those who — 

Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.i 

I am naturally, beforehand, shy of novelties; new 
books; new faces, new years, — from some mental 
twist which makes it difficult in me to face the pros- 
pective. I have almost ceased to hope; and am 
sanguine only in the prospects of other (former) 
years. I plunge into foregone visions and conclusions. 
I encounter pell-mell with past disappointments. I 
am armor-proof against old discouragements. I for- 
give, or overcome in fancy, old adversaries. I play 
over again for love, as the gamesters phrase it, games, 
for which I once paid so dear. I would scarce now 
have any of those untoward accidents and events of 
my life reversed. I would no more alter them than 
the incidents of some well-contrived novel. Methinks, 
it is better that I should have pined away seven of 
my goldenest years, when I was thrall to the fair 

hair, and fairer eyes of Alice W n,^ than that so 

passionate a love-adventure should be lost. It was 
better that our family should have missed that 
legacy which old Dorrell cheated us of, than that I 



NEW YEAR'S EVE 77 

should have at this moment two thousand pounds 
in hanco, and be without the idea of that specious old 
rogue. 

In a degree beneath manhood, it is my infirmity 
to look back upon those early days. Do I advance 
a paradox, when I say, that, skipping over the inter- 
vention of forty years, a man may have leave to 
love himself, without the imputation of self-love? 

If I know aught of myself, no one whose mind is 
introspective — and mine is painfully so — can have 
a less respect for his present identity, than I have 
for the man Elia. I know him to be light, and 
vain, and humorsome; a notorious * * * . ad- 
dicted to * * * : averse from counsel, neither 
taking it, nor offering it; — * * * besides; a 
stammering buffoon; what you will; lay it on, and 
spare not ; I subscribe to it all, and much more, than 

thou canst be willing to lay at his door but for 

the child Elia^ — that ^' other me," there, in the back- 
ground — I must take leave to cherish the remem- 
brance of that young master — ^with as little refer- 
ence, I protest, to this stupid changeling of five-and- 
forty, as if it had been a child of some other house, 
and not of my parents. I can cry over its patient 
small-pox at five, and rougher medicaments. I can 
lay its poor fevered head upon the sick pillow at 
Christ's, and wake with it in surprise at the gentle 
posture of maternal tenderness hanging over it, 
that unknown had watched its sleep. I know how 
it shrank from any the least color of falsehood, — God 



78 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

help thee, Elia, how art thou changed! Thou art 
sophisticated. — I know how honest, how courageous 
(for a weakling) it was — how religious, how imagi- 
native, how hopeful ! From what have I not fallen, 
if the child I remember was indeed myself, — and 
not some dissembling guardian, presenting a false 
identity, to give the rule to my unpracticed steps, 
and regulate the tone of my moral being! 

That I am fond of indulging, beyond a hope of 
sympathy, in such retrospection, may be the symptom 
of some sickly idiosyncrasy. Or is it owing to an- 
other cause ; simply, that being without wife or 
family, I have not learned to project myself enough 
out of myself ; and having no offspring of my own to 
dally with, I turn back upon memory, and adopt 
my own early idea, as my heir and favorite? If 
these speculations seem fantastical to thee, reader — 
(a busy man, perchance), if I tread out of the 
way of thy sympathy, and am singularly-conceited 
only, I retire, impenetrable to ridicule, under the 
phantom cloud of Elia. 

The elders, with whom I was brought up, were 
of a character not likely to let slip the sacred ob- 
servance of any old institution; and the ringing out 
of the Old Year was kept by them with circumstances 
of peculiar ceremony. — In those days the sound of 
those midnight chimes though it seemed to raise 
hilarity in all around me, never failed to bring a 
train of pensive imagery into my fancy. Yet I 
then scarce conceived what it meant, or thought of 



NEW YEAR'S EVE 79 

it as a reckoning that concerned me. Not child- 
hood alone, but the young man till thirty, never feels 
practically that he is mortal. He knows it indeed, 
and, if need were, he could preach a homily on the 
fragility of life; but he brings it not home to him- 
self, any more than in a hot June we can appro- 
priate to our imagination the freezing days of 
December. But now, shall I confess a truth? — I feel 
these audits but too powerfully. I begin to count 
the probabilities of my duration, and to grudge at 
the expenditure of moments and shortest periods, 
like miser's farthings. In proportion as the years 
both lessen and shorten, I set more count upon their 
periods, and would fain lay my ineffectual finger 
upon the spoke of the great wheel. I am not con- 
tent to pass away "like a weaver's shuttle." ^ Those 
metaphors solace me not, nor sweeten the unpalatable 
draught of mortality. I care not to be carried with 
the tide, that smoothly bears human life to eternity; 
and reluct at the inevitable course of destiny. I 
am in love with this green earth; the face of town 
and country ; the unspeakable rural solitudes, and 
the sweet security of streets. I would set up my 
tabernacle here. I am content to stand still at the 
age to which I am arrived ; I, and my friends : to 
be no younger, no richer, no handsomer. I do not 
want to be weaned by age ; or drop, like mellow 
fruit, as they say, into the grave. — Any alteration, 
on this earth of mine, in diet or in lodging, puzzles 
and discomposes me. My household-gods plant a 



80 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

terrible fixed foot, and are not rooted up without 
blood. They do not willingly seek Lavinian shores.^ 
A new state of being staggers me. 

Sun, and sky, and breeze, and solitary walks, and 
summer holidays, and the greenness of fields, and the 
delicious juices of meats and fishes, and society, and 
the cheerful glass, and candle-light, and fire-side con- 
versations, and innocent vanities, and jests, and irony 
itself — do these things go <Jat with life? 

Can a ghost laugh, or shake his gaunt sides, when 
you are pleasant with him? 

And you, my midnight darlings, my Folios! must 
I part with the intense delight of having you (huge 
armfuls) in my embraces? Must knowledge come 
to me, if it come at all, by some awkward experiment 
of intuition, and no longer by this familiar process 
of reading? 

Shall I enjoy friendships there, wanting the smil- 
ing indications which point me to them here, — 
the recognizable face — the ''sweet assurance of a 
look"— ? 2 

In winter this intolerable disinclination to dying — 
to give it its mildest name — does more especially 
haunt and beset me. In a genial August noon, be- 
neath a sweltering sky, death is almost problematic. 
At those times do such poor snakes as myself enjoy 
an immortality. Then we expand and burgeon. 
Then are we as strong again, as valiant again, as wise 
again, and a great deal taller. The blast that nips 
and shrinks me, puts me in thought of death. All 



NEW YEAR'S EVE 81 

things allied to the insubstantial, wait upon that 
master feeling; cold, numbness, dreams, perplexity; 
moonlight itself, with its shadowy and spectral ap- 
pearances, — that cold ghost of the sun, or Phoebus' 
sickly sister,^ like that innutritious one denounced in 
the Canticles : ^ — I am none of her minions— I hold 
with the Persian.^ 

Whatsoever thwarts, or puts me out of my way, 
brings death into my mind. All partial evils, 
like humors, run into that capital plague-sore. — 
I have heard some profess an indifference to 
life. Such hail the end of their existence as 
a port of refuge; and speak of the grave as 
of some soft arms, in which they may slumber 

as on a pillow. Some have wooed death ^but 

out upon thee, I say, thou foul, ugly phantom ! I de- 
test, abhor, execrate, and (with Friar John) * give 
thee to six-score thousand devils, as in no instance to 
be excused or tolerated, but shunned as a universal 
yiper ; to be branded, proscribed, and spoken evil of ! 
In no way can I be brought to digest thee, thou thin, 
melancholy Privation, or more frightful and con- 
founding Positive! , 

Those antidotes, prescribed against the fear of 
thee, are altogether frigid and insulting, like thy- 
self. For what satisfaction hath a man, that he shall 
' ' lie down with kings and emperors in death, ' ' ^ who 
in his life-time never greatly coveted the society of 
such bedfellows? — or, forsooth, that, ''so shall the 
fairest face appear?" — ^why, to comfort me, must 



82 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Alice W n be a goblin ? More than all, T conceive 

disgust at those impertinent and misbecoming fa- 
miliarities, inscribed upon your ordinary tombstones. 
Every dead man must take upon himself to be lectur- 
ing me with his odious truism, that ''such as he now 
is, I must shortly be." Not so shortly, friend, per- 
haps, as thou imaginest. In the meantime I am alive. 
I move about. I am worth twenty of thee. Know 
thy betters! Thy New Years' Days are past. I sur- 
vive, a jolly candidate for 1821. Another cup of 
wine — and while that turn-coat bell, that just now 
mournfully chanted the obsequies of 1820 departed, 
with changed notes lustily rings in a successor, let us 
attune to its peal the song made on a like occasion, 
by hearty, cheerful Mr. Cotton. — ^ 

THE NEW YEAR 

Hark, the cock crows, and yon bright star 
Tells us, the day himself s not far; 
And see where, breaking from the night, 
He gilds the western hills with light. 
With him old Janus 2 doth appear, 
Peeping into the future year, 
With such a look as seems to say, 
The prospect is not good that way. 
Thus do we rise ill sights to see, 
And 'gainst ourselves to prophesy; 
When the prophetic fear of things 
A more tormenting mischief brings. 
More full of soul-tormentinff onall 
Than- direst mischiefs can befall. 
But stay! but stay! methinks my sight. 



NEW YEAR'S EVE 83 

Better inform'd by clearer light, 

Discerns sereneness in that brow. 

That all contracted seem'd but now. 

His revers'd face may show distaste. 

And frown upon the ills are past; 

But that which this way looks is clear, 

And smiles upon the New-born Year. 

He looks too from a place so high, 

The Year lies open to his eyej 

And all the moments open are 

To the exact discoverer. 

Yet more and more he smiles upon 

The happy revolution. 

Why should we then suspect or fear 

The influences of a year. 

So smiles upon us the first morn. 

And speaks us good so soon as born? 

Plague on't! the last was ill enough. 

This cannot but make better proof; 

Or, at the worst, as we brush'd through 

The last, why so we may this too; 

And then the next in reason shou'd 

Be superexcellently good: 

For the worst ills (we daily see) 

Have no more perpetuity. 

Than the best fortunes that do fall 3 

Which also bring us wherewithal 

Longer their being to support, 

Than those do of the other sort: 

And who has one good year in three, 

And yet repines at destiny. 

Appears ungrateful in the case, 

And merits not the good he has. 

Then let us welcome the New Guest 

With lusty brimmers of the best; 

Mirth always should Good Fortune meet. 



84 THE ESSAYS. OF ELIA 

And render e'en Disaster sweet: . 
And though the Princess turn her back, 
Let us but line ourselves with sack. 
We better shall by far hold out. 
Till the next Year she face about. 

How say you, reader — do not these Terses smack of 
the rough magnanimity of the old English vein ? Do 
they not fortify like a cordial; enlarging the heart, 
and productive of sweet blood, and generous spirits. 
in the concoction? Where be those puling fears of 
death, just now expressed or affected ? — Passed like a 
cloud — absorbed in the purging sunlight of clear 
poetry — clean washed away by a wave of genuine 
Helicon/ your only Spa ^ for these hypochondries — 
And now another cup of the generous! and a merry 
New Year^ and many of them, to you all, my masters ! 



MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST 

*'A CLEAR fire, a clean hearth, and the rigor of the 
game." This was the celebrated wish of old Sarah 
Battle (now with God) who, next to her devotions, 
loved a good game at whist. She was none of your 
lukewarm gamesters, your half and half players, who 
have no objection to take a hand, if you want one to 
make up a rubber; who affirm that they have no 
pleasure in winning; that they like to win one game 
and lose another; that they can while away an hour 
very agreeably at a card-table, but are indifferent 
whether they play or no ; and will desire an adversary, 



MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST 85 

who has slipped a wrong card, to take it up and play 
another. These insufferable triflers are the curse of a 
table. One of these flies will spoil a whole pot. Of 
such it may be said, that they do not play at cards, but 
only play at playing at them. 

Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She de- 
tested them, as I do, from her heart and soul; and 
would not, save upon a striking emergency, willingly 
seat herself at the same table with them. She loved 
a thorough-paced partner, a determined enemy. She 
took, and gave, no concessions. She hated favors. 
She never made a revoke, nor ever passed it over in 
her adversary without exacting the utmost forfeiture. 
She fought a good fight : cut and thrust. She held 
not her good sword (her cards) ''like a dancer." She 
sat bolt upright; and neither showed you her cards, 
nor desired to see yours. All people have their blind 
side — their superstitions; and I have heard her de- 
clare, under the rose, that Hearts was her favorite 
suit. 

I never in my life — and I knew Sarah Battle many 
of the best years of it — saw her take out her snuff- 
box when it was her turn to play ; or snuff a candle 
in the middle of a game ; or ring for a servant, till it 
was fairly over. She never introduced or connived 
at, miscellaneous conversation during its process. 
As she emphatically observed, cards were cards: and 
if I ever saw unmingled distaste in her fine last- 
century countenance, it was at the airs of a young 
gentleman of a literary turn, who had been with dif- 



Se THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

ficulty persuaded to take a hand ; and who, in his ex- 
cess of candor, declared, that he thought there was 
no harm in unbending the mind now and then, after 
serious studies, in recreations of that kind! She 
could not bear to have her noble occupation, to which 
she wound up her faculties, considered in that light. 
It was her business, her duty, the thing she came into 
the world to do^ — and she did it. She unbent her 
mind afterwards — over a book. 

Pope ^ was her favorite author : his Rape of the 
Lock - her favorite work. Slie once did me the favor 
to play over with me (with the cards) his celebrated 
game of Ombre ^ in that poem ; and to explain to me 
how far it agreed with, and in what points it would 
be found to differ from, tradrille. Her illustrations 
were apposite and poignant; and I had the pleasure 
of sending the substance of them to Mr. Bowles : * but 
I suppose they came too late to be inserted among his 
ingenious notes upon that author. 

Quadrille, she has often told me, was her first love; 
but whist had engaged her maturer esteem. The 
former, she said, was showy and specious, and likely 
to allure young persons. The uncertainty and quick 
shifting of partners — a thing which the constancy 
of whist abhors; the dazzling supremacy and regal 
investiture of Spadille ^ — absurd, as she justly ob- 
served, in the pure aristocracy of whist, where his 
crown and garter gave him no proper power above 
his brother-nobility of the Aces; — the giddy vanity, 
so taking to the inexperience^, of playing alone; — 



MBS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST 87 

above all, the overpowering attractions of a Sans 
Prendre Vole,^ — to the triumph of which there is cer- 
tainly nothing parallel or approaching, in the contin- 
gencies of whist; — all these, she would say, make 
quadrille a game of captivation to the young and 
enthusiastic. But whist was the soldier game : that 
was her word. It was a long meal ; not like quadrille, 
a feast of snatches. One or two rubbers might co- 
extend in duration with an evening. They gave time 
to form rooted friendships, to cultivate steady 
enmities. She despised the chance-started, capri- 
cious, and ever fluctuating alliances of the other. 
The skirmishes of quadrille, she would say, reminded 
her of the petty ephemeral embroilments of the little 
Italian states, depicted by Machiavel ; ^ perpetually 
changing postures and connections; bitter foes to- 
day, sugared darlings • to-morrow ; kissing and 
scratching in a breath; — but the wars of whist were 
comparable to the long, steady, deep-rooted, rational, 
antipathies of the great French and English nations. 
A grave simplicity was what she chiefly admired 
in her favorite game. There was nothing silly in it, 
like the nob in cribbage — nothing superfluous. No 
flushes — that most irrational of all pleas that a 
reasonable being can set up : — that anyone should 
claim four by virtue of holding cards of the same 
mark and color, without reference to the playing of 
the game, or the individual worth or pretentions of the 
cards themselves! She held this to be a solecism; 
as pitiful an ambition at cards as alliteration is in 



88 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

authorship. She despised superficiality, and looked 
deeper than the colors of things. Suits were. soldiers, 
she would say, and must have a uniformity of array 
to distinguish them: but what should we say to a 
foolish squire, who should claim a merit for dressing 
up his tenantry in red jackets, that never were to 
be marshaled — never to take the field? — She even 
wished that whist were more simple than it is; and, 
in my mind, would have stripped it of some append- 
ages, which, in the state of human frailty, may be 
venially, and even commendably allowed of. She 
saw no reason for the deciding of the trump by 
the turn of the card. Why not one suit always 
trumps? — Why two colors, when the mark of the 
suits would have sufficiently distinguished them with- 
out it?— 

"But the eye, my dear Madam, is agreeably re- 
freshed with the variety. Man is not a creature of 
pure reason — he must have his senses delightfully ap- 
pealed to. We see it in Roman Catholic countries, 
where the music and the paintings draw in many 
to worship, whom your quaker spirit of unsensual- 
izing would have kept out. — You, yourself, have a 
pretty collection of paintings — but confess to me, 
whether, walking in your gallery at Sandham, 
among those clear Vandykes,^ or among the Paul 
Potters ^ in the ante-room, you ever felt your bosom 
glow with an elegant delight, at all comparable to 
that you have it in your power to experience most 
evenings over a well-arranged assortment of the 



MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST 89 

court cards? — the pretty antic habits, like heralds 
in a procession — the gay triumph-assuring scarlets — 
the contrasting deadly-killing sables — the 'hoary 
majesty of spades' — Pam in all his glory ! ^ — 

"All these might be dispensed with; and, with 
their naked names upon the drab pasteboard, the 
game might go on very well, pictureless. But 
the beauty of cards would be extinguished forever. 
Stripped of all that is imaginative in them, they 
must degenerate into mere gambling. — Imagine a 
dull deal board, or drum head, to spread them on, 
instead of that nice verdant carpet (next to na- 
ture's), fittest arena for those courtly combatants 
to play their gallant jousts and tourneys in ! — Ex- 
change those delicately turned ivory markers — (work 
of Chinese artist, unconscious of their symbol, — or as 
profanely slighting their true application as the 
arrantest Ephesian journeyman ^ that turned out 
those little shrines for the goddess) — exchange them 
for little bits of leather (our ancestors' money) or 
chalk and a slate!" — 

The old lady, with a smile, confessed the soundness 
of my logic; and to her approbation of my argu- 
ments on her favorite topic that evening, I have 
always fancied myself indebted for the legacy of a 
curious cribbage board, made of the finest Sienna 
marble,^ which her maternal uncle (Old Walter 
Plumer,* whom I have elsewhere celebrated) brought 
with him from Florence : — this, and a trifle of five 
hundred pounds came to me at her death. 



90 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

The former bequest (which I do not least value) 
I have kept with religious care ; though she herself, 
to confess a truth, was never greatly taken with crib- 
bage. It was an essentially vulgar game, I have 
heard her say, — disputing with her uncle, who was 
very partial to it. She could never heartily bring 
her mouth to pronounce "go/' or "that's a go." 
She called it an ungrammatical game. The pegging 
teased her. I once knew her to forfeit a rubber (a 
five dollar stake), because she would not take ad- 
vantage of the turned-up knave, which would have 
given it her, but which she must have claimed by 
the disgraceful tenure of declaring "two for Ms 
heels." There is something extremely genteel in this 
sort of self-denial. Sarah Battle was a gentlewoman 
born. 

Piquet she held the- best game at the cards for 
two persons, though she would ridicule the pedantry 
of the terms — such as pique repique — the capot — ■ 
they savored (she thought) of affectation. But 
games for two, or even three, she never greatly cared 
for. She loved the quadrate, or square. She would 
argue thus : — Cards are warfare : the ends are gain, 
with glory. But cards are war, in disguise of a 
sport : when single adversaries encounter, the ends 
proposed are too palpable. By themselves, it is too 
close a fight: with spectators, it is not much bettered. 
No looker-on can be interested, except for a bet, and 
then it* is a mere affair of money ; he cares not for 
your luck sympathetically, or for your play. — Three 



MES. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST 91 

are still worse; a mere naked war of every man 
against every man, as in cribbage, without league 
or alliance; or a rotation of petty and contradictory 
interests, a succession of heartless leagues, and not 
much more hearty infractions of them, as in tradrille. 
But in square games (she meant whist) all that is 
possible to be attained in card-playing is accom- 
plished. There are the incentives of profit with 
honor, common to every species — though the latter 
can be but very imperfectly enjoyed in those other 
games, where the spectator is only feebly a par- 
ticipator. But the parties in whist are spectators 
and principals too. They are a theater to them- 
selves, and a looker-on is not wanted. He is rather 
worse than nothing, and an impertinence. Whist 
abhors neutrality, or interests beyond its sphere. 
You glory in some surprising stroke of skill or 
fortune, not because a cold — or even an interested 
— bystander witnesses it, but because your partner 
sympathizes in the contingency. You win for two. 
You triumph for two. Two are exalted. Two again 
are mortified ; which divides their disgrace, as the 
conjunction doubles (by taking off the invidiousness) 
your glories. Two losing to two are better reconciled, 
than one to one in that close butchery. The hostile 
feeling is weakened by multiplying the channels. 
War becomes a civil game. — By such reasonings as 
these the old lady was accustomed to defend her 
favorite pastime. 

No inducement could ever prevail upon her to play 



92 TEE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

at any game where any chance entered into the 
composition, for nothing. Chance, she would argue 
—and here again, admire the subtlety of her con- 
clusion ! — chance is nothing, but where something 
else depends upon it. It is obvious, that cannot be 
glory. What rational cause of exultation could it 
give to a man to turn up size ace a hundred times 
together by himself? or before spectators, where no 
stake was depending? — Make a lottery of a hundred 
thousand tickets with but one fortunate number — 
and what possible principle of our nature, except 
stupid wonderment, could it gratify to gain that 
number as many times successively, without a prize? 
— Therefore she disliked the mixture of chance in 
backgammon, where it was not played for money. 
She called it foolish, and those people idiots, who 
were taken with a lucky hit under such circum- 
stances. Games of pure skill were as little to her 
fancy. Played for a stake, they were a mere system 
of over-reaching. Played for glory, they were a 
mere setting of one man's wit — ^his memory, or com- 
bination-faculty rather — against another's; like a 
mock engagement at a review, bloodless and profit- 
less. — She could not conceive a game wanting the 
sprightly infusion of chance, — ^the handsome excuses 
of good fortune. Two people playing at chess in a 
corner of a room whilst whist was stirring in the 
center, would inspire her with unsufferable horror 
and ennui. Those well-cut similitudes of Castles, 
and Knights, the imagery of the board, she would 



MBS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST 93 

argue (and I think in this case justly) were entirely 
misplaced, and senseless. Those hard head-contests 
can in no instance ally with the fancy. They reject 
form and color. A pencil and dry slate (she used 
to say) were the proper arena for such combatants. 

To those puny objectors against cards, as nurturing 
the bad passions, she would retort, that man is a 
gaming animal. He must be always trying to get 
the better in something or other: — that this passion 
can scarcely be more safely expended than upon a 
game of cards : that cards are a temporary illusion ; 
in truth, a mere drama; for we do but play at being 
mightily concerned, where a few idle shillings are 
at stake, yet, during the illusion, we are as mightily 
concerned as those whose stake is crowns and king- 
doms. They are a sort of dream-fighting; much ado; 
great battling, and little blood shed; mighty means 
for disproportioned ends; quite as diverting, and 
a great deal more innoxious, than many of those 
more serious games of life, which men play, without 
esteeming them to be such. 

With great deference to the old lady's judgment on 
these matters, I think I have experienced some 
moments in my life, when playing at cards for 
nothing has even been very agreeable. When I am 
in sickness, or not in the best spirits, I sometimes 
call for the cards, and play a game at piquet for love 
with my cousin Bridget — Bridget Elia.^ 

I grant there is something sneaking in it: but with 
a toothache or a sprained ankle, — when you are 



94 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

subdued and humble, — you are glad to put up with 
an inferior spring of action. 

There is such a thing in nature, I am convinced, 
as sick whist. — 

I grant it is not the highest style of man — I depre- 
cate the manes of Sarah Battle — she lives not, alas ! 
to whom I should apologize. — 

At such times those terms which my old friend 
objected to, come in as something admissible. — I love 
to get a tierce or a quatorze, though they mean noth- 
ing. I am subdued to an inferior interest. Those 
shadows of winning amuse me. 

That last game I had with my sweet cousin (I 
capotted her) — (dare I tell thee how foolish I am?) — 
I wished it might have lasted for ever, though we 
gained nothing, and lost nothing, though it was a 
mere shade of play: I would be content to go on in 
that idle folly for ever. The pipkin should be ever 
boiling, that was to prepare the gentle lenitive to 
my foot, which Bridget was doomed to apply after 
the game was over: and as I do not much relish 
appliances, there it should ever bubble. Bridget and 
I should be ever playing. 

A CHAPTER ON EARS 



I HAVE no ear 

Mistake me not, reader, — nor imagine that I am by 
nature destitute of those exterior twin appendages, 
hanging ornaments, and (architecturally speaking) 



A CHAPTER ON EARS 95 

handsome volutes to the human capital. Better my 
mother had never borne me. — I am, I think, rather 
delicately than copiously provided with those con- 
duits; and I feel no disposition to envy the mule 
for his plenty, or the mole for her exactness, in 
those ingenious labyrinthine inlets — those indispen- 
sable side-intelligencers. 

Neither have I incurred, nor done anything to 
incur, with Defoe,^ that hideous disfigurement, which 
constrained him to draw upon assurance — to feel 
"quite unabashed," and at ease upon that article. 
I was never, I thank my stars, in the pillory; nor, 
if I read them aright, is it within the compass of 
my destiny, that I ever should be. 

When therefore I say that I have no ear, you 
will understand me to mean — /or music. — To say 
that this heart never melted at the concourse of 
sweet sounds, would be a foul self-libel. — ^' Water 
parted from the sea'' never fails to movent strangely. 
So does ^^In Infancy." But they were used to be 
sung at her harpsichord (the old-fashioned instru- 
ment in vogue in those days) by a gentlewoman — 
the gentlest, sure, that ever merited the appellation — 
the sweetest — w^hy should I hesitate to name Mrs. 

S ,^ once the blooming Fanny Weatheral of the 

Temple — who had power to thrill the soul of Elia, 
small imp as he was, even in his long coats; and 
to make him glow, tremble, and blush with a passion, 
that not faintly indicated the day-spring of that 
absorbing sentiment, which was afterwards destined 



96 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

to overwhelm and subdue his nature quite, for Alice 
W n. 

I even think that sentimentally I am disposed to 
harmony. But organically I am incapable of a tune. 
I have been practicing "God save the King'' all my 
life ; whistling and humming of it over to myself in 
solitary corners; and am not yet arrived, they tell 
me within many quavers of it. Yet hath the loyalty 
of Elia never been impeached. 

I am not without suspicion, that I have an unde- 
veloped faculty of music within me. For, thrum- 
ming, in my wild way, on my friend A. 's piano, the 
other morning, while he was engaged in an adjoining 
parlor, — on his return he was pleased to say, "he 
thought it could not he the maid!'' On his first 
surprise at hearing the keys touched in somewhat an 
airy and masterful way, not dreaming of me, his 
suspicions had lighted on Jenny. But a grace, 
snatched from a superior refinement, soon convinced 
him that some being, — technically perhaps deficient, 
but higher informed from a principle common to all 
the fine arts, — had swayed the keys to a mood which 
Jenny, with all her (less cultivated) enthusiasm, 
could never have elicited from them. I mention this 
as a proof of my friend's penetration and not with 
any view of disparaging Jenny. 

Scientifically I could never be made to understand 
(yet have I taken some pains) what a note in music 
is; or how one note should differ from another. 
Much less in voices can I distinguish a soprano from 



A CHAPTER ON EARS 97 

a tenor. Only sometimes the thorough bass I con- 
trive to guess at, from its being supereminently harsh 
and disagreeable. I tremble, however, for my mis- 
application of the simplest terms of that which I 
disclaim. While I profess my ignorance, I scarce 
know what to say I am ignorant of. I hate, per- 
haps, by misnomers. Sostenuto and adagio ^ stand 
in the like relation of obscurity to me; and Sol, Fa, 
Mi, Re, is as conjuring as Baralipton.^ 

It is hard to stand alone — in an age like this, — 
(constituted to the quick and critical perception of 
all harmonious combinations, I verily believe, be- 
yond all preceding ages, since Jubal ^ stumbled upon 
the gamut) to remain, as it were, singly unimpres- 
sible to the magic influences of an art, which is said 
to have such an especial stroke at soothing, elevating 
and refining the passions. — Yet rather than break 
the candid current of my confessions, I must avow 
to you, that I have received a great deal more pain 
than pleasure from this so cried-up faculty. 

I am constitutionally susceptible of noises. A car- 
penter's hammer, in a warm summer noon, will fret 
me into more than midsummer madness. But those 
unconnected, unset sounds are nothing to the 
measured malice of music. The ear is passive to 
those single strokes; willingly enduring stripes, while 
it hath no task to con. To music it cannot be passive. 
It will strive — mine at least will — 'spite of its inapt- 
itude to thrid the maze; like an unskilled eye pain- 
fully pouring upon hieroglyphics. I have sat through 



98 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

an Italian Opera, till, for sheer pain, and inexplicable 
anguish, I have rushed out into the noisiest places 
of the crowded streets, to solace myself with sounds, 
which I was not obliged to follow, and get rid of 
the distracting torment of endless, fruitless, barren 
attention ! I take refuge in the unpretending as- 
semblage of honesty common-life sounds; — and the 
purgatory of the Enraged Musician becomes my 
paradise. 

I have sat at an Oratorio (that profanation of 
the purposes of the cheerful playhouse) watching the 
faces of the auditory in the pit (what a contrast to 
Hogarth's Laughing Audience!) immovable, or af- 
fecting some faint emotion, — till (as some have said, 
that our occupations in the next world will be but a 
shadow of what delighted us in this) I have imagined 
myself in some cold Theater in Hades,^ where some 
of the forms of the earthly one should be kept up, 
with none of the enjoyment; or like that — 

Party in a parlor,2 



All silent, and all damned: 

Above all, those insufferable concertos, and pieces 
of music, as they are called, do plague and embitter 
my apprehension. — Words are something; but to be 
exposed to an endless battery of mere sounds; to be 
long a dying, to lie stretched upon a rack of roses ; to 
keep up languor by unintermitted effort ; to pile honey 
upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable 
tedious sweetness; to fill up sound with feeling, and 



A CHAPTER ON EARS 99 

strain ideas to keep pace with it ; to gaze on empty 
frames, and be forced to make the pictures for your- 
self ; to read a book, all stops, and be obliged to supply 
the verbal matter; to invent extempore tragedies to 
answer to the vague gestures of an inexplicable ram- 
bling mime — these are faint shadows of what I have 
undergone from a series of the ablest-executed pieces 
of this empty instrumental music. 

I deny not, that in the opening of a concert, I 
have experienced something vastly lulling and agree- 
able: — afterwards followeth the languor, and the op- 
pression. Like that disappointing book in Patmos ; ^ 
or, like the comings on of melancholy, described by 
Burton, doth music make her first insinuating ap- 
proaches : — ''Most pleasant it is to such as are melan- 
choly given, to walk alone in some solitary grove, be- 
twixt wood and water, by some brook side, and to med- 
itate upon some delightsome and pleasant subject, 
which shall affect him most, amahilis insania, and 
mentis gratissimus error.^ A most incomparable de- 
light to build castles in the air, to go smiling to them- 
selves, acting an infinite variety of parts, which they 
suppose, and strongly imagine, they act, or that they 
see done. — So delightsome these toys at first, they 
could spend whole days and nights without sleep, even 
whole years in such contemplations, and fantastical 
meditations, which are like so many dreams, and will 
hardly be drawn from them — winding and unwinding 
themselves as so many clocks, and still pleasing their 
humors, until at last the scene turns upon a sudden, 

LOFC. 



100 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

and they being now habitated to such meditations, and 
solitary places, can endure no company, can think of 
nothing but harsh and distasteful subjects. Fear, 
sorrow, suspicion, suhrusticus pudorj^ discontent, 
cares, and weariness of life, surprise them on a sudden, 
and they can think of nothing else : continually sus- 
pecting, no sooner are their eyes open, but this in- 
fernal plague of melancholy seizeth on them, and ter- 
rifies their souls, representing some dismal object to 
their minds; which now, by no means, no labor, no 
persuasions they can avoid, they cannot be rid of it, 
they cannot resist." 

Something like this ^'scene-turning" I have ex- 
perienced ^t the evening parties, at the house of my 

good Catholic friend Nov ; ^ who, by the aid of a 

capital organ, himself the most finished of players, 
converts his drawing-room into a chapel, his week 
days into Sundays, and these latter into minor heav- 
ens.* 

When my friend commences upon one of those 
solemn anthems which peradventure struck upon my 
heedless ear, rambling in the side aisles of the dim 
abbey, some five and thirty years since, waking a new 
sense, and putting a soul of old religion into my young 
apprehension — whether it be that, in which the psalm- 
ist, weary of the persecutions of bad men, wisheth 
to himself dove's wings — or that other, which, with a 
like measure of sobriety and pathos, inquireth by what 

*I have been there, and still would go; 
'Tis like a little heaven below. — Dr. Waits. 



A CHAPTER ON EARS 101 

means the young man shall best cleanse his mind — 
a holy calm pervadeth me, — I am for the time. 

rapt above earth. 



And possess joys not promised at my birth 

But when this master of the spell, not content to 
have laid a soul prostrate, goes on, in his power, to 
inflict more bliss than lies in her capacity to receive, 
— impatient to overcome her "earthly" with his 
"heavenly,"— still pouring in, for protracted hours, 
fresh waves and fresh from the sea of sound, or from 
that inexhausted German ocean, above which, in tri^ 
umphant progress, dolphin-seated, ride those Arions 
Haydn and Mozart,^ with their attendant tritons, 
Bach, Beethoven,^ and a countless tribe, whom to at- 
tempt to reckon up would but plunge me again in the 
deeps,— 'I stagger under the weight of harmony, reel- 
ing to and fro at my wit's end; clouds, as of 

frankincense, oppress me— priests, altars, censers, daz- 
zle before me — the genius of his religion hath me in 
her toils— a shadowy triple tiara invests the brow of 
my friend, fate so naked, so ingenious — he is Pope, — 
and by him sits, like as in the anomaly of dreams, a 
she-Pope too,— tri-coroneted like himself ! I am con- 
verted, and yet a Protestant ;— at once malleus heretic 
cornm,^ and myself grand heresiarch : or three heresies 
center in my person :— I am Marcion, Ebion, and Cer- 
inthus— Gog and Magog *— what not?— till the coming 
in of the friendly supper-tray dissipates the figment, 
and a draught of true Lutheran beer (in which chiefly 



102 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

my friend shows himself no bigot) at once reconciles 
me to the rationalities of a purer faith; and, restores 
to me the genuine unterrifying aspects of my pleasant- 
countenanced host and hostess. 



ALL FOOLS^ DAY 

The compliments of the season to my worthy masters, 
and a merry first of April to us all ! 

Many happy returns of this day to you — and you — 
and you, Sir — nay, never frown, man, nor put a long 
face upon the matter. Do not we know one another? 
what need of ceremony among friends? we have all 
a touch of that same — you understand me — a speck of 
the motley. Beshrew the man who on such a day 
as this, the general festival, should affect to stand 
aloof. I am none of those sneakers. I am free of 
the corporation, and care not who knows it. He that 
meets me in the forest to-day, shall meet with no 
wise-acre, I can tell him. Stultus sum.^ Translate 
me that, and take the meaning of it to yourself for 
your pains. What, man, we have four quarters of 
the globe on our side, at the least computation. 

Fill us a cup of that sparkling gooseberry — we will 
drink no wise, melancholy, politic port on this day — • 
and let us troll the catch of Amiens — due ad me — • 
due ad me ^ — how goes it ? 

Here shall he see 
Gross fools as he.* 



ALL FOOLS' DAY 103 

Now would I give a trifle to know historically and 
authentically, who was the greatest fool that ever 
lived. I would certainly give him in a bumper. 
Marry, of the present breed, I think I could without 
much difficulty name you the party. 

Remove your cap a little further, if you please; it 
hides my bauble. And now each man bestride his 
hobby, and dust away his bells to what tune he pleases. 
I will give you for my part, 

The crazy old clmrch clock. 



And the bewildered chimes. 

Good master Empedocles,^ you are welcome. It 
is long since you went a salamander-gathering down 
^tna. Worse than samphire-picking by some odds. 
'Tis a mercy your worship did not singe your mus- 
tachios. 

Ha ! Cleombrotus ! ^ and what salads in faith did 
you light upon at the bottom of the Mediterranean? 
You were founder, I take it, of the disinterested sect 
of the Calenturists.^ 

Gebir,* my old free-mason, and prince of plasterers 
at Babel,^ bring in your trowel, most Ancient Grand ! 
You have claim to a seat here at my right hand, as 
patron of the stammerers. You left your work, if I 
remember Herodotus ^ correctly, at eight hundred 
million toises, or thereabout, above the level of the sea. 
Bless us, what a long bell you must have pulled, to 
call your top workmen to their nunchion on the low 
grounds of Sennaar.'^ Or did you send up your gar- 



104 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

lick and onions by a rocket? I am a rogue if I am 
not ashamed to show you our Monument on Fish 
Street Hill, after your altitudes. Yet we think it 
somewhat. 

What, the magnanimous Alexander in tears ? ^ — 
cry, baby, put its finger in its eye, it shall have an- 
other globe, round as an orange, pretty moppet 1 

Mister Adams 'odso, I honor your coat — pray 

do us the favor to read to us that sermon, which you 
lent to Mistress Slipslop — the twenty and second in 
your portmanteau there — on Female Incontinence — 
the same — it will come in most irrelevantly and im- 
pertinently seasonable to the time of the day. 
Good Master Raymond Lully,^ you look wise. 

Pray correct that error. 

Duns,^ spare your definitions. I must fine you a 
bumper, or a paradox. We will have nothing said or 
done syllogistically this day. Remove those logical 
forms, waiter, that no gentleman break the tender 
shins of his apprehension stumbling across them. 

Master Stephen, you are late. — Ha! Cokes, is it 
you? — Aguecheek, my dear knight, let me pay my 
devoir to you. — Master Shallow, your worship's poor 
servant to command. — Master Silence, I will use few 
words with you. — Slender,* it shall go hard if I edge 
not you in somewhere. — You six will engross all the 
poor wit of the company to-day. — I know it, I know 
it. 

Ha! honest R ,^ my fine old Librarian of Lud- 

gate, time out of mind, art thou here again? Bless 



ALL FOOLS' DAY 105 

thy doublet, it is not over-new, threadbare as thy 
stories: — what dost thou flitting about the world at 
this rate? — Thy customers are extinct, defunct, bed- 
rid, have ceased to read long ago. — Thou goest still 
among them, seeing if, peradventure, thou canst hawk 

a volume or two. — Good Granville S ,^ thy last 

patron is flown. 

King Pandion, he is dead, 

All thy friends are lapt in lead. 2 — 

Nevertheless, noble R , come in, and take your 

seat here, between Armado and Quisada : ^ for in true 
courtesy, in gravity, in fantastic smiling to thyself, 
in courteous smiling upon others, in the goodly orna- 
ture of well-appareled speech, and the commendation 
of wise sentences, thou art nothing inferior to those 
accomplished Dons of Spain. The spirit of chivalry 
forsake me for ever, when I forget thy singing the 
song of Macheath,* which declares that he might be 
happy with either, situated between those two ancient 
spinsters — when I forget the inimitable formal love 
which thou didst make, turning now to the one, and 
now to the other, with that Malvolian smile ^ — as if 
Cervantes, not Gay,*^ had written it for his hero ; and 
as if thousands of periods must revolve, before the 
mirror of courtesy could have given his invidious 
preference between a pair of so goodly-propertied and 
meritorious-equal damsels. * * * 

To descend from these altitudes, and not to pro- 
tract our Fools' Banquet beyond its appropriate day, 



106 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

— for I fear the second of April is not many hours 
distant — in sober verity I will confess a truth to 
thee, reader. I love a Fool — as natural^, as if I were 
of kith and kin to him. When a child, with child- 
like apprehensions, that dived not below the surface 
of the matter, I read those Parables — not guessing at 
their involved wisdom — I had more yearnings towards 
that simple architect, that built his house upon the 
sand, than I entertained for his more cautious neigh- 
bor; I grudged at the hard censure pronounced upon 
the quiet soul that kept his talent ; and — prizing their 
simplicity beyond the more provident, and, to my ap- 
prehension, somewhat unfeminine wariness of their 
competitors — I felt a kindliness, that almost amounted 
to a tendre, for those five thoughtless virgins — I have 
never made an acquaintance since, that lasted ; or a 
friendship, that answered ; with any that had not some 
tincture of the absurd in their characters. I venerate 
an honest obliquity of understanding. The more 
laughable blunders a man shall commit in your com- 
pany, the more tests he giveth you, that he will not 
betray or overreach you. I love the safety which a 
palpable hallucination warrants; the security, which 
a word out of season ratifies. And take my word for 
this, reader, and say a fool told it you, if you please, 
that he who hath not a dram of folly in his mixture, 
had pounds of much worse matter in his composition. 
It is observed, that ''the foolisher the fowl or fish — 
woodcocks, — dotterels, — cod's-heads, etc., the finer the 
flesh thereof, ' ' and what are commonly the world 's re- 



A QUAKERS' MEETING 107 

ceived fools, but such whereof the world is not 
worthy ? and what have been some of the kindliest pat- 
terns of our species, but so many darlings of absurd- 
ity, minions of the goddess, and her white boys? — • 
Reader, if you wrest my words beyond their fair con- 
struction, it is you, and not I, that are the April Fool. 



A QUAKERS' MEETING 

Still-born Silence? thou that art 

Flood-gate of the deeper heart! 

Offspring of a heavenly kind ! 

Frost o' the mouth, and thaw o' the mind! 

Secrecy's confidant, and he 

Who makes religion mystery! 

Admiration's speaking'st tongue! 

Leave, thy desert shades among, 

Eeverend hermits' hallowed cells, 

Where retired devotion dwells! 

With thy enthusiasms come. 

Seize our tongues, and strike us dumb! * 

Reader, would 'st thou know what true peace and 
quiet mean: would 'st thou find a refuge from the 
noises and clamors of the multitude; would 'st thou 
enjoy at once solitude and society; would 'st thou pos- 
sess the depth of thine own spirit in stillness, without 
being shut out from the consolatory faces of thy spe- 
cies; would 'st thou be alone, and yet accompanied; 
solitary, yet not desolate; singular, yet not without 
some to keep thee in countenance; — a unit in aggre- 

* From " Poems of all sorts," by Richard Fleckno, 1653. 



108 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

gate ; a simple in composite : — come with me into 
a Quakers' Meeting. 

Dost thou love silence deep as that "before the 
winds were made?" go not out into the wilderness, 
descend not into the profundities of the earth; shut 
not up thy casements; nor pour wax into the little 
cells of thy ears, with little-faith 'd self -mistrusting 
Ulysses.^ — Retire with me into a Quakers' Meeting. 

For a man to refrain even from good words, and to 
hold his peace, it is commendable; but for a multitude, 
it is great mastery. 

What is the stillness of the desert, compared with 
this place? what the uncommunicating muteness of 
fishes? — here the goddess reigns and revels. — ''Boreas, 
and Cesias, and Argestes loud, ' '- do not with their in- 
ter-confounding uproars more augment the brawl^ 
nor the waves of the blown Baltic with their clubbed 
sounds — than their opposite (Silence her sacred self) 
is multiplied and rendered more intense by numbers, 
and by sympathy. She too hath her deeps, that call 
unto deeps. Negation itself hath a positive more or 
less ; and closed eyes would seem to obscure the great 
obscurity of midnight. 

There are wounds, which an imperfect solitude can- 
not heal. By imperfect I mean that which a man 
enjoyeth by himself. The perfect is that which he 
can sometimes attain in crowds, but nowhere so abso- 
lutely as in a Quakers' Meeting. — Those first hermits 
did certainly understand this principle, when they re- 
tired into Egyptian solitudes, not singly, but in shoals, 



A QUAKERS' MEETING 109 

to enjoy one another's want of conversation. The 
Carthusian ^ is bound to his brethren by this agreeing 
spirit of incommunicativeness. In secular occasions, 
what so pleasant as to be reading a book through a 
long winter evening, with a friend sitting by — say, a 
^ife_he, or she, too (if that be probable), reading 
another, without interruption, or oral communication ? 
— can there be no sympathy without the gabble of 
words? — away with this inhuman, shy, single, shade- 
and-cavern-haunting solitariness. Give me, Master 
Zimmerman,^ a sympathetic solitude. 

To pace alone in the cloisters, or side aisles of some 
cathedral, time-stricken; 

Or under hanging mountains, 
Or by the fall of fountains; 

is but a vulgar luxury, compared with that which 
those enjoy, who come together for the purposes of 
more complete, abstracted solitude. This is the loneli- 
ness "to be felt." The Abbey Church of Westmin- 
ster hath nothing so solemn,^ so spirit-soothing, as the 
naked walls and benches of a Quakers' Meeting. 
Here are no tombs, no inscriptions, 

sands, ignoble things 



o'^> 



Dropt from the ruined sides of kings — 

but here is something, which throws Antiquity herself 
into the foreground — Silence — eldest of things — 
language of old Night— primitive Discourser— to 
which the insolent decays of moldering grandeur have 



110 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

but arrived by a violent, and, as we may say, mi- 
natural progression. 

How reverend is the view "of these hushed heads. 
Looking tranquillity! 

Nothing-plotting, nought-caballing, unmischievous 
synod ! convocation without intrigue ! parliament with- 
out debate ! what a lesson dost thou read to Council, 
and to consistory! if my pen treat of you lightly — 
as haply it will wander — yet my spirit hath gravely 
felt the wisdom of your custom, when sitting among 
you in deepest peace, which some out-welling tears 
would rather confirm than disturb, I have reverted to 
the times of your beginnings, and the sowings of the 
seed by Fox ^ and Dewesbury. — I have witnessed that, 
which brought before my eyes your heroic tranquillity, 
inflexible to the rude jests and serious violences of 
the insolent soldiery, republican or royalist, sent to 
molest you — for ye sate betwixt the fires of two perse- 
cutions, the outcast and off-scowering of church and 
presbytery. — I have seen the reeling sea-rufiian, who 
had wandered into your receptacle, with the avowed 
intention of disturbing your quiet, from the very 
spirit of the place receive in a moment a new heart, 
and presently sit among ye as a lamb amidst lambs. 
And I remembered Penn before his accusers,- and 
Fox in the bail-dock, where he was lifted up in spirit, 
as he tells us, and "the Judge and the Jury became 
as dead men under his feet." 

Reader, if you are not acquainted with it, I would 



A QUAKERS' MEETING 111 

recommend to you, above all church-narratives, to read 
Sewel's History of the Quakers.^ It is in folio, and 
is the abstract of the journals of Fox, and the primi- 
tive Friends. It is far more edifying and affecting 
than anything you will read of Wesley, and his col- 
leagues. Here is nothing to stagger you, nothing to 
make you mistrust, no suspicion of alloy, no drop or 
dreg of the worldly or ambitious spirit. You will 
here read the true story of that much-injured, ridi- 
culed man (who perhaps hath been a by-word in 
your mouth) — James Naylor:^ what dreadful suffer- 
ings, with what patience, he endured even to the bor- 
ing through of his tongue with red-hot irons without 
a murmur ; and with what strength of mind, when the 
delusion he had fallen into, which they stigmatized 
for blasphemy, had given way to clearer thoughts, he 
could renounce his error, in a strain of the beautiful- 
est humility, yet keep his first grounds, and be a 
Quaker still ! — so different from the practice of your 
common converts from enthusiasm, who, when they 
apostatize, apostatize all, and think they can never get 
far enough from the society of their former errors, 
even to the renunciation of some saving truths, with 
which they had been mingled, not implicated. 

Get the Writings of John Woolman ^ by heart ; and 
love the early Quakers. 

How far the followers of these good men in our 
days have kept to the primitive spirit, or in what pro- 
portion they have substituted formality for it, the 
Judge of Spirits can alone determine. I have seen 



112 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

faces in their assemblies, upon which the dove sate 
visibly brooding. Others again I have watched, when 
my thoughts should have been better engaged, in which 
I could possibly detect nothing but a blank inanity. 
But quiet was in all, and the disposition to unanimity, 
and the absence of the fierce controversial workings. 
— If the spiritual pretensions of the Quakers have 
abated, at least they make few pretenses. Hypocrites 
they certainly are not, in their preaching. It is sel- 
d©m indeed that you shall see one get up amongst them 
to hold forth. Only now and then a trembling female, 
generally ancient, voice is heard — you cannot guess 
from what part of the meeting it proceeds — with a 
low buzzing, musical sound, laying out a few words 
which "she thought might suit the condition of some 
present," with a quaking diffidence, which leaves no 
possibility of supposing that any thing of female van- 
ity was mixed up, where the tones were so full of 
tenderness, and a restraining modesty. — The men, for 
what I have observed, speak seldomer. 

Once only, and it was some years ago, I witnessed 
a sample of the old Foxian orgasm. It was a man 
of giant stature, who, as Wordsworth phrases it, 
might have danced "from head to foot equipt in iron 
mail." His frame was of iron too. But he was 
malleable. I saw him shake all over with the spirit — 
I dare not say, of delusion. The strivings of the outer 
man were unutterable — he seemed not to. speak, but to 
be spoken from. I saw the strong man bowed down, 
and his knees to fail — his joints all seemed loosening — 



A QUAKERS' MEETING 113 

it was a figure to set off against Paul Preaching— 
the words he uttered were few, and sound— he was evi- 
dently resisting his will — keeping down his own word- 
■ wisdom .with more mighty effort, than the world's ora- 
tors strain for theirs. ''He had been a Wit in his 
youth," he told us, with expressions of a sober re- 
morse. And it was not till long after the impression 
had begun to wear away, that I was enabled, with 
something like a smile, to recall the striking incon- 
gruity of the confession — understanding the term in 
its worldly acceptation— with the frame and physiog- 
nomy of the person before me. His brow would have 
scared away the Levites— the Jocos Risus-que ^— 
faster than the Loves fled the face of Dis at Enna.^ 
By wit, even in his youth, I will be sworn he under- 
stood something far within the limits of an allowable 
liberty. 

More frequently the Meeting is broken up without 
a word having been spoken. But the mind has been 
fed. You go away with a sermon, not made with 
hands. You have been in the milder caverns of Tro- 
phonius ; ^ or as in some den, where that fiercest and 
savagest of all wild creatures, the Tongue, that unruly 
member, has strangely lain tied up and captive. You 
have bathed with stillness.— O when the spirit is sore 
fettered, even tired to sickness of the janglings, and 
nonsense noises of the world, what a balm and a sol- 
ace it is, to .go and seat yourself for a quiet half 
hour, upon some undisputed corner of a bench, among 
the gentle Quakers! 



114 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Their garb and stillness conjoined, present an uni- 
formity, tranquil and herd-like — as in the pasture — 
''forty feeding like one." — 

The very garments of a Quaker seem incapable of 
receiving a soil; and cleanliness in them to be some- 
thing more than the absence of its contrary. Every 
Quakeress is a lily; and when they come up in bands 
to their Whitsun-conferences,^ whitening the easterly 
streets of the metropolis, from all parts of the United 
Kingdom, they show like troops of the Shining Ones.^ 

THE OLD AND THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER. 

My reading has been lamentably desultory and im- 
methodical.' Odd, out of the way, old English plays, 
and treatises, have supplied me with most of my no- 
tions, and ways of feeling. In every thing that re- 
lates to science, I am a whole Encyclopaedia behind the 
rest of the world. I should have scarcely cut a figure 
among the franklins, or country gentlemen, in King 
John 's days. I know less geography than a school-boy 
of six weeks ' standing. To me a map of old Ortelius * 
is as authentic as Arrowsmith.^ I do not know where- 
about Africa merges into Asia; whether Ethiopia lie 
in one or other of those great divisions ; nor can form 
the remotest conjecture of the position of New South 
Wales, or Van Dieman's Land.^ Yet do I hold a cor- 
respondence with a very dear friend in the first-named 
of these two Terr^ Incognitae.'^ I have no astronomy. 
I do not know where to look for the Bear, or Charles 's 
Wain ; s the place of any star ; or the name of any of 



OLD AND NEW SCHOOLMASTER 115 

them at sight. I guess at Venus ^ only by her bright- 
ness — and if the sun on some portentous morn were 
to make his first appearance in the West, I verily be- 
lieve, that, while all the world were gasping in ap- 
prehension about me, I alone should stand unterrified, 
from sheer incuriosity and want of observation. Of 
history and chronology I possess some vague points, 
such as one cannot help picking up in the course of 
miscellaneous study ; but I never deliberately sat down 
to a chronicle, even of my own country. I have most 
dim apprehensions of the four great monarchies; and 
sometimes the Assyrian, sometimes the Persian, floats 
as first in my fancy. I make the wildest conjectures 
concerning Egypt, and her shepherd kings. My 
friend if./ with great painstaking, got me to think 
I understood the first proposition in Euclid,^ but gave 
me over in despair at the second. I am entirely un- 
acquainted with the modern languages; and, like a 
better man than myself, have "small Latin and less 
Greek. " * I am a stranger to the shapes and texture 
of the commonest trees, herbs, flowers — not from the 
circumstance of my being town-born — for I should 
have brought the same inobservant spirit into the. 
world with me, had I first seen it, ''on Devon's leafy 
shores, ' ' — and am no less at a loss among purely town- 
objects, tools, engines, mechanic processes. — Not that 
I affect ignorance — but my head has not many man- 
sions, nor spacious; and I have been obliged to fill it 
with such cabinet curiosities as it can hold without 
aching. I sometimes wonder how I have passed my 



116 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

probation with so little discredit in the world, as I 
have done, upon so meager a stock. But the fact is, 
a man may do very well with a very little knowledge, 
and scarce be found out, in mixed company; every- 
body is so much more ready to produce his own, than 
to call for a display of your acquisitions. But in a 
tete-a-tete there is no shuffling. The truth will out. 
There is nothing which I dread so much, as the being 
left alone for a quarter of an hour with a sensible, 
well-informed man that does not know me. I lately 
got into a dilemma of this sort. — 

In one of my daily jaunts between Bishopsgate and 
Shacklewell, the coach stopped to take up a staid-look- 
ing gentleman, about the wrong side of thirty, who 
was giving his parting directions (while the steps were 
adjusting), in a tone of mild authority, to a tall youth, 
who seemed to be neither his clerk, his son, nor his 
servant, but something partaking of all three. The 
youth was dismissed, and we drove on. As we were 
the sole passengers, he naturally enough addressed his 
conversation to me ; and we discussed the merits of the 
fare, the civility and punctuality of the driver; the 
circumstance of an opposition coach having been lately 
set up, with the probabilities of its success — to all 
which I was enabled to return pretty satisfactory an- 
swers, having been drilled into this kind of etiquette 
by some years' daily practice of riding to and fro in 
the stage aforesaid — when he suddenly alarmed me 
by a startling question, whether I had seen the show 
of prize cattle that morning in Smithfield? Now as 



OLD AND NEW SCHOOLMASTER 117 

I had not seen it, and do not greatly care for such sort 
of exhibitions, I was obliged to return a cold negative. 
He seemed a little mortified, as well as astonished, at 
my declaration, as (it appeared) he was just come 
fresh from the sight, and doubtless had hoped to com- 
pare notes on -the subject. However he assured me 
that I had lost a fine treat, as it far exceeded the show 
of last year. We were now approaching Norton Fal- 
gate, when the sight of some shop-goods ticketed fresh- 
ened him up into a dissertation upon the cheapness 
of cottons this spring. I was now a little in heart, 
as the nature of my morning avocations had brought 
me into some sort of familiarity v/ith the raw mate- 
rial; and I was surprised to find how eloquent I was 
becoming on the state of the Indian market — when, 
presently, he dashed my incipient vanity to the earth 
at once, by inquiring whether I had ever made any 
calculation as to the value of the rental of all the retail 
shops in London. Had he asked of me, what song the 
Sirens^ sang, or what name Achilles assumed when 
he hid himself among women,^ I might with Sir 
Thomas Browne, have hazarded a "wide solution."* 
My companion saw my embarrassment, and, the alms- 
houses beyond Shoreditch just coming in view, with 
great good-nature and dexterity shifted his conversa- 
tion to the subject of public charities; which led to 
the comparative merits of provision for the poor in 
past and present times, with observations on the old 
monastic institutions, and charitable orders ; but, find- 

* Urn Burial. 



118 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

ing me rather dimly impressed with some glimmering 
notions from old poetic associations, than strongly for- 
tified with any speculations reducible to calculation on 
the subject, he gave the matter up ; and, the country 
beginning to open more and more upon us, as we ap- 
proached the turnpike at Kingsland (the destmed ter- 
mination of his journey), he put a home thrust upon 
me, in the most unfortunate position he could have 
chosen, by advancing some queries relative to the 
North Pole Expedition. While I was muttering out 
something about the Panorama of those strange re- 
gions (which I had actually seen), by way of parry- 
ing the question, the coach stopping relieved me from 
any further apprehensions. My companion getting 
out, left me in the comfortable possession of my ig- 
norance; and I heard him, as he went off, putting 
questions to an outside passenger, who had alighted 
with him, regarding an epidemic disorder, that had 
been rife about Dalston ; and which, my friend assured 
him, had gone through five or six schools in that neigh- 
borhood. The truth now flashed upon me, that my 
companion was a schoolmaster; and that the youth, 
whom he had parted from at our first acquaintance, 
must have been one of the bigger boys, or the usher. — 
He was evidently a kind-hearted man, who did not 
seem so much desirous of provoking discussion by the 
questions which he put, as of obtaining information 
at any rate. It did not appear that he took any in- 
terest, either, in such kind of inquiries, for their own 
sake ; but that he was in some way bound to seek for 



OLD AND NEW SCHOOLMASTER 119 

knowledge. A greenish-colored coat, which he had, on, 
forbade me to surmise that he was a clergyman. The 
adventure gave birth to some reflections on the differ- 
ence between persons of his profession in past and 
present times. 

Rest to the souls of those fine old Pedagogues; the 
breed, long since extinct, of the Lilys, and the Lin- 
acres : ^ who believing that all learning was contained 
in the languages which they taught, and despising 
every other acquirement as superficial and useless, 
came to their task as to a sport ! Passing from in- 
fancy to age, they dreamed away all their days as in 
a grammar-school. Revolving in a perpetual cycle of 
declensions, conjugations, syntaxes, and prosodies; re- 
newing constantly the occupations which had charmed 
their studious childhood; rehearsing continually the 
part of the past; life* must have slipped from them 
at last like one day. They were always in their first 
garden, reaping harvests of their golden time, among 
their Flori and their Spici-legia; in Arcadia ^ still, 
but kings ; the ferule of their sway not much harsher, 
but of like dignity with that mild scepter attributed 
to king Basileus; the Greek and Latin, their stately 
Pamela and their Philoclea ; with the occasional dun- 
eery of some untoward Tyro, serving for a refreshing 
interlude of a Mopsa, or a clown Damsetas ! ^ 

With what a savor doth the Preface to Colet's,* or 
(as it is sometimes called) Paul's "Accidence," set 
forth! "To exhort every man to the learning of 
grammar, that intendeth to attain the understanding 



120 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

of the tongues, wherein is contained a great treasury 
of wisdom and knowledge, it would seem but yain and 
lost labor; for so much as it is known, that nothing 
can surely be ended, whose beginning is either feeble 
or faulty; and no building be perfect, whereas the 
foundation and ground work is ready to fall, and 
unable to uphold the burden of the frame." How 
well doth this stately preamble (comparable to those 
which Milton commendeth as ''having been the usage 
to prefix to some solemn law, then first promulgated 
by Solon, or Lycurgus") ^ correspond with and illus- 
trate that pious zeal for conformity, expressed in a 
succeeding clause, which would fence about grammar- 
rules with the severity of faith-articles ! — ' ' as for the 
diversity of grammars, it is well profitably taken away 
by the King's Majesties wisdom, who foreseeing the 
inconvenience, and favorably providing the remedie, 
caused one kind of grammar by sundry learned men 
to be diligently drawn, and so to be set .out, only 
everywhere to be taught for the use of learners, and 
for the hurt in changing of schoolmasters." What a 
gusto in that which follows : ' ' wherein it is profitable 
that he [the pupil] can orderly decline his noun and 
his verb. ' ' His noun ! 

The fine dream is fading away fast; and the least 
concern of a teacher in the present day is to inculcate 
grammar-rules. 

The modern schoolmaster is expected to know a little 
of everything, because his pupil is required not to be 
entirely ignorant of anything. He must be super- 



OLD AND NEW SCHOOLMASTER 121 

ficially, if I may so say, omniscient. He is to know 
something of pneumatics; of chemistry; of whatever 
is curious, or proper to excite the attention of the 
youthful mind ; an insight into mechanics is desirable, 
with a touch of statistics ; the quality of soils, etc., bot- 
any, the constitution of his country, cum multis aliis} 
You may get a notion of some part of his expected 
duties by consulting the famous Tractate on Educa- 
tion addressed to Mr. Hartlib.^ 

All these things — these, or the desire of them — ^he 
is expected to instil, not by set lessons from professors, 
which he may charge in the bill, but at school-inter- 
vals, as he walks the streets, or saunters through green 
fields (those natural instructors), with his pupils. 
The least part of what is expected from him, is to be 
done in school-hours. He must insinuate knowledge 
as the mollia tempora fandi.^ He must seize every oc- 
casion — the season of the year — the time of the day — 
a passing cloud — a rainbow— a wagon of hay — a regi- 
ment of soldiers going by — to inculcate something 
useful. He can receive no pleasure from a casual 
glimpse of Nature, but must catch at it as an object 
of instruction. He must interpret beauty into the 
picturesque. He cannot relish a beggar-man, or a 
gipsy, for thinking of the suitable improvement. 
Nothing comes to him, not spoiled by the sophisticating 
medium of moral uses. The Universe — that Great 
Book, as it has been called — is to him indeed, to all 
intents and purposes, a book, out of which he is 
doomed to read tedious homilies to distasting school- 



122 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

boys. — Vacations themselves are none to him, he is only 
rather worse off than before; for commonly he has 
some intrusive upper-boy fastened upon him at such 
times; some cadet of a great family; some neglected 
lump of nobility, or gentry; that he must drag after 
him to the play, to the Panorama, to Mr. Bartley's 
Orrery, to the Panopticon, or into the country, to a 
friend's house, or his favorite watering-place. Wher- 
ever he goes, this uneasy shadow attends him. A boy 
is at his board, and in his path, and in all his move- 
ments. He is boy-rid, sick of perpetual boy. 

Boys are capital fellows in their own way, among 
their mates ; but they are unwholesome companions for 
grown people. The restraint is felt no less on the one 
side, than on the other. — Even a child, that "play- 
thing for an hour," tires always. The noises of chil- 
dren, playing their own fancies — as I now hearken to 
them by fits, sporting on the green before my window, 
while I am engaged in these grave speculations at my 
neat suburban retreat at Shacklewell — by distance 
made more sweet — inexpressibly take from the labor 
of my task. It is like writing to music. They seem to 
modulate my periods. They ought at least to do so — 
for in the voice of that tender age there is a kind of 
poetry, far unlike the harsh prose-accents of man's 
conversation. — I should but spoil their sport, and di- 
minish my own sympathy for them, by mingling in 
their pastime. 

I would not be domesticated all my days with a per- 
son of very superior capacity to my own — not, if I 



OLD AND NEW SCHOOLMASTER 123 

know myself at all, from any considerations of jeal- 
ousy or self-comparison, for the occasional communion 
with such minds has constituted the fortune and felic- 
ity of my life — but the habit of too constant inter- 
course with spirits above you, instead of raising you, 
keeps you down. Too frequent doses of original think- 
ing from others, restrain what lesser portion of that 
faculty you may possess of your own. You get en- 
tangled in another man's mind, even as you lose your- 
self in another man 's grounds. You are walking with 
a tall varlet, whose strides out-pace yours to lassitude. 
The constant operation of such potent agency would 
reduce me, I am convinced, to imbecility. You may 
derive thoughts from others; your way of thinking, 
the mold in which your thoughts are cast, must be 
your own. Intellect may be imparted, but not each 
man's intellectual frame. — 

As little as I should wish to be always thus dragged 
upwards, as little (or rather still less) is it desirable 
to be stunted downwards by your associates. The 
trumpet does not more stun you by its loudness, than 
a whisper teases you by its provoking inaudibility. 

Why are we never quite at our ease in the presence 
of a school-master? — because we are conscious that 
he is not quite at his ease in ours. He is awkward, 
and out of place, in the society of his equals. He 
comes like Gulliver from among his little people, and 
he cannot fit the stature of his understanding to 
yours. He cannot meet you on the square. He wants 
a point given him, like an indifferent whist-player. 



124 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

He is so used to teaching, that he wants to be teaching 
you. One of these professors, upon my complaining 
that these little sketches of mine were any thing but 
methodical, and that I was unable to make them other- 
wise, kindly offered to instruct me in the method by 
which young gentlemen in Jiis seminary were taught 
to compose English themes. — The jests of a school- 
master are coarse, or thin. They do not tell out of 
school. He is under the restraint of a formal and 
didactive hypocrisy in company, as a clergyman is 
under a moral one. He can no more let his intellect 
loose in society, than the other can his inclinations. — 
He is forlorn among his co-evals; his juniors cannot 
be his friends. 

''I take blame to myself," said a sensible man 
of this profession, writing to a friend respecting a 
youth who had quitted his school abruptly, ' ' that your 
nephew was not more attached to me. But persons in 
my situation are more to be pitied, than can well be 
imagined. We are surrounded by young, and, conse- 
quently, ardently affectionate hearts, but we can never 
hope to share an atom of their affections. The rela- 
tion of master and scholar forbids this. How pleas- 
ing this must te to you, how I envy your feelings, my 
friends will sometimes say to me, when they see young 
men, whom I have educated, return after some years' 
absence from school, their eyes shining with pleasure, 
while they shake hands with their old master, bring- 
ing a present of game to me, or a toy to my wife, and 
thanking me in the warmest terms for my care of their 



OLD AND NEW SCHOOLMASTER 125 

education. A holiday is begged for the boys; the 
house is a scene of happiness; I, only, am sad, at 
heart. — This fine-spirited and warm-hearted youth, 
who fancies he repays his master with gratitude for 
the care of his boyish years — this young man — in the 
eight long years I watched over him with a parent's 
anxiety, never could repay me with one look of genu- 
ine feeling. He was proud, when I praised; he was 
submissive, when I reproved him ; but he did never 
love me — and what he now mistakes for gratitude and 
kindness for me, is but the pleasant sensation, which 
all persons feel at revisiting the scene of their boyish 
hopes and fears; and the seeing on equal terms the 
man they were accustomed to look up to with rever- 
ence. My wife too," this interesting correspondent 
goes on to say; ''my once darling Anna, is the wife of 
a schoolmaster. — When I married her — knowing that 
the wife of a schoolmaster ought to be a busy notable 
creature, and fearing that my gentle Anna would ill 
supply the loss of my dear bustling mother, just then 
dead, who never sat still, was in every part of the 
house in a moment, and whom I was obliged sometimes 
to threaten to fasten down in a chair, to save her from 
fatiguing herself to death — I expressed my fears, that 
I was bringing her into a way of life unsuitable to 
her; and she, who loved me tenderly, promised for 
my sake to exert herself to perform the duties of her 
new situation. She promised, and she has kept her 
word. What wonders will not a woman's love per- 
form? — My house is managed with a propriety and 



126 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

decorum, unknown in other schools ; my boys are well 
fed, look healthy, and have every proper accommoda- 
tion ; and all this performed with a careful economy, 
that never, descends to meanness. But I have lost my 
gentle, helpless Anna ! — When we sit down to enjoy an 
hour of repose after the fatigue of the day, I am com- 
pelled to listen to what have been her useful (and they 
are really useful) employments through the day, and 
what she proposes for her to-morrow's task. Her 
heart and her features are changed by the duties of 
her situation. To the boys she never appears other 
than the master's wife, and she looks up to me as the 
hoys' master; to whom all show of love and affection 
would be highly improper, and unbecoming the dig- 
nity of her situation and mine. Yet tliis my gratitude 
forbids me to hint to her. For my sake she submitted 
to be this altered creature, and can I reproach her 
for it ? ' ' — For the communication of this letter, I am 
indebted to my cousin Bridget. 

VALENTINE'S DAY 

Hail to thy returning festival, old Bishop Valentine !^ 
Great is thy name in the rubric, thou venerable Arch- 
flamen of Hymen ! ^ Immortal Go-between ! who and 
what manner of person art thou? Art thou but a 
name, tj^pifying the restless principle which impels 
poor humans to seek perfection in union ? or wert thou 
indeed a mortal prelate, with thy tippet and thy 
rochet, thy apron on, and decent lawn sleeves? Mys- 



VALENTINE'S DAY 127 

terious personage ! like unto thee, assuredly, there is no 
other mitred father in the calendar; not Jerome, nor 
Ambrose, nor Cyril ; ^ nor the consigner of undipped 
infants to eternal torments, Austin,^ whom all moth- 
ers hate ; nor he who hated all mothers, Origen ; ^ nor 
Bishop Bull, nor Archbishop Parker, nor Whitgift.* 
Thou comest attended with thousands and ten thou- 
sands of little Loves, and the air is 

Brush'd with the hiss of rustling wings. 5 

Singing Cupids ^ are thy choristers and thy precen- 
tors ; and instead of the crosier, the inystical arrow is 
borne before thee. 

In other words, this is the day on which those charm- 
ing little missives, ycleped Valentines, cross and in- 
tercross each other at every street and turning. The 
weary and all for-spent twopenny postman sinks be- 
neath a load of delicate embarrassments, not his own. 
It is scarcely credible to what an extent this ephemeral 
courtship is carried on in this loving town, to the great 
enrichment of porters, and detriment of knockers and 
bell-wires. In these little visual interpretations, no 
emblem is so common as the heart, — that little three- 
cornered exponent of all our hopes and fears, — the 
bestuck and bleeding heart ; it is twisted and tortured 
into more allegories and affectations than an opera 
hat. "What authority we have in history or mythology 
for placing the headquarters and metropolis of God 
Cupid in this anatomical seat rather than in any other, 
is not very clear; but we have got it, and it will serve 



128 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

as well as any other. Else we might easily imagine, 
upon some other system which might have prevailed 
for any thing which our pathology knows to the con- 
trary, a lover addressing his mistress, in perfect sim- 
plicity of feeling, ' ' Madame, my liver and fortune are 
entirely at your disposal ; " or putting a delicate ques- 
tion, ' ' Amanda, have you a midriff to bestow ? ' ' But 
custom has settled these things, and awarded the seat 
of sentiment to the aforesaid triangle, while its less 
fortunate neighbors wait at animal and anatomical 
distance. 

Not many sounds in life, and I include all urban 
and all rural sounds, exceed in interest a knock at the 
door. It ' ' gives a very echo to the throne where Hope 
is seated." But its issues seldom answer to this ora- 
cle within. It is so seldom that just the person we 
want to see comes. But of all the clamorous visitations 
the welcomest in expectation is the sound that ushers 
in, or seems to usher in, a Valentine. As the raven 
himself was hoarse that announced the fatal entrance 
of Duncan,^ so the knock of the postman on this day 
is light, airy, confident, and befitting one that bringeth 
good tidings. It is less mechanical than on other 
days ; you will say, ' ' That is not the post I am sure. ' ' 
Visions of Love, of Cupids, of Hymens! — delightful 
eternal common-places, which ''having been will al- 
ways be ; " which no school-boy nor school-man can 
write away; having your irreversible throne in the 
fancy and affections — what are your transports, 
when the happy maiden, opening with careful finger. 



VALENTINE'S DAY 129 

careful not to break the emblematic seal, bursts upon 
the sight of some well-designed allegory, some type, 
some youthful fancy, not without verses — 

Lovers all, 
A madrigal, 

or some such device, not over abundant in sense—-- 
young Love disclaims it, — and not quite silly — some- 
thing between wind and water, a chorus where the 
sheep might almost join the shepherd, as they did, or 
as I apprehend they did, in Arcadia. 
^ All Valentines are not foolish ; and I shall not easily 
forget thine, my kind friend (if I may have leave to 
call you so) E. B.^ — E. B. lived opposite a young 
maiden, whom he had often seen, unseen, from his par- 
lor window in C — e Street. She was all joyousness 
and innocence, and just of an age to enjoy receiving 
a Valentine, and just of a temper to bear the disap- 
pointment of missing one with good humor. E. B. is 
an artist of no common powers ; in the fancy parts of 
designing, perhaps inferior to none ; his name is known 
at the bottom of many a well-executed vignette in the 
way of his profession, but no further; for E. B. is 
modest, and the world meets nobody half-way. E. B. 
meditated how he could repay this young maiden for 
many a favor she had done him unknown ; for when 
a kindly face greets us, though but passing by, and 
never knows us again, nor we it, we should feel it 
as an obligation; and E. B. did. This good artist 
set himself at work to please the damsel. It was just 



130 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

before Valentine 's day three years since. He wrought, 
unseen and unsuspected, a wondrous work. We need 
not say it was on the finest gilt paper with borders — 
full, not of common hearts and heartless allegory, but 
all the prettiest stories of love from Ovid,^ and older 
poets than Ovid (for E. B. is a scholar). There was 
Pyramus and Thisbe,^ and be sure Dido ^ was not for- 
got, nor Hero and Leander,* and swans more than 
sang in Cayster,^ with mottoes and fanciful devices, 
such as beseemed, — a work, in short, of magic. Iris 
dipped the woof. This on Valentine's eve he com- 
mended to the all-swallowing indiscriminate orifice — 
( ignoble trust ! ) — of the common post ; but the hum- 
ble medium did its duty, and from his watchful stand, 
the next morning, he saw the cheerful messenger 
knock, and by and by the precious charge delivered. 
He saw, unseen, the happy girl unfold the Valentine, 
dance about, clap her hands, as one after one the 
pretty emblems unfolded themselves. She danced 
about, not with light love, or foolish expectations, for 
she had no lover, or, if she had, none she knew that 
could have created those bright images which de- 
lighted her. It was more like some fairy present; a 
God-send, as our familiarly pious ancestors termed a 
benefit received, where the benefactor was unknown. 
It would do her no harm. It would do her good for 
ever after. It is good to love the unknown. I only 
give this as a specimen of E. B. and his modest way 
of doing a concealed kindness. 
V Good-morrow to my Valentine, sings poor Ophelia ; ^ 



IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES 131 

and no better wish, but with better auspices, we wish 
to all faithful lovers, who are not too wise to despise old 
legends, but are content to rank themselves humble 
diocesans of old Bishop Valentine, and his true church. 



IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES 

I am of a constitution so general, that it consorts and sym- 
pathizeth with all things; I have no antipathy, or rather 
idiosyncrasy in anything. Those national repugnances do 
not touch me, nor do I behald with prejudice the French, 
Italian, Spaniard, or Dutch. — Religio Medici. 

That the author of the Religio Medici,^ mounted upon 
the airy stilts of abstraction, conversant about notional 
and conjectural essences; in whose categories of Be- 
ing th^ possible took the upper hand of the actual ; 
should have overlooked the impertinent individualities 
of such poor concretions as mankind, is not much to 
be admired. It is rather to be wondered at, that in 
the genius of animals he should have condescended to 
distinguish that species at all. For myself— earth- 
bound and fettered to the scene of my activities, — 

Standing on earth, not rapt above the sky, 

I confess that I do feel the differences of mankind, 
national or individual, to an unhealthy excess. I can 
look with no indifferent eye upon things or persons. 
Whatever is, is to me a matter of taste or distaste ; or 
when once it becomes indifferent, it begins to be dis- 
relishing. I am, in plainer words, a bundle of preju- 



132 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

dices — made up of likings and dislikings — the veriest 
thrall to sympathies, apathies, antipathies. In a cer- 
tain sense, I hope it may be said of me that I am a 
lover of my species. I can feel for all indifferently, 
but I cannot feel towards all equally. The more 
purely-English word that expresses sympathy will 
better explain my meaning. I can be a friend to a 
worthy man, who upon another account cannot be my 
mate or fellow. I cannot like all people alike.* 

I have been trying all my life to like Scotchmen, 
and am obliged to desist from the experiment in de- 

* I would be understood as confining myself to the subject 
of imperfect sympathies. To nations or classes of men there 
can be no direct antipathy. There may be individuals born 
and constellated so opposite to another individual nature, 
that the same sphere cannot hold them. I have met with 
my moral antipodes, and can believe the story of twq persons 
meeting (who never saw one another before in their lives) 
and instantly fighting. 

We by proof find there should be 



'Twixt man and man such an antipathy, 
That though he can show no just reason why 
For any former wrong or injury, 
Can neither find a blemish in his fame, 
Nor aught in face or feature justly blame, 
Can challenge or accuse him of no evil. 
Yet notwithstanding hates him as a devil. 

The lines are from old Heywood's " Hierarchic of Angels," and 
he subjoins a curious story in confirmation, of a Spaniard 
who attempted to assassinate a King Ferdinand of Spain, and 
being put to the rack could give no other reason for the deed 
but an inveterate antipathy which he had taken to the first 
sight of the King. 

The cause which to that act compell'd him 



Was/ he ne'er loved him since he first beheld him. 



IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES 133 

spair. They cannot like me — and in truth, I never 
knew one of that nation who attempted to do it. 
There is something more plain and ingenuous in their 
mode of proceeding. We know one another at first 
sight. There is an order of imperfect intellects (un- 
der which mine must be content to rank) which in its 
constitution is essentially anti-Caledonian.^ The own- 
ers of the sort of faculties I allude to, have minds 
rather suggestive than comprehensive. They have no 
pretenses to much clearness or precision in their ideas, 
or in their manner of expressing them. Their intel- 
lectual wardrobe (to confess fairly) has few whole 
pieces in it. They are content with fragments and 
scattered pieces of Truth. She presents no full front 
to them — a feature of side-face at the most. Hints 
and glimpses, germs and crude essays at a system, is 
the utmost they pretend to. They beat up a little game 
peradventure — and leave it to knottier heads, more 
robust constitutions, to run it down. The light that 
lights them is not steady and polar, but mutable and 
shifting ; waxing, and again waning. Their conversa- 
tion is accordingly. They will throw out a random 
word in or out of season, and be content to let it pass 
for what it is worth. They cannot speak always as if 
they were upon their oath — but must be understood, 
speaking or writing, with some abatement. They sel- 
dom wait to mature a proposition, but e'en bring it 
to market in the green ear. They delight to impart 
their defective discoveries as they arise, without wait- 
ing for their full development. They are no sys- 



134 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

tematizers, and would but err more by attempting it 
Their minds, as I said before, are suggestive merely. 
The brain of a true Caledonian (if I am not mis- 
taken) is constituted upon quite a different plan. 
His Minerva ^ is born in panoply. You are never ad- 
mitted to see his ideas in their growth — if, indeed, 
they do grow, and are not rather put together upon 
principles of clockwork. You never catch his mind 
in an undress. He never hints or suggests anything, 
but unlades his stock of ideas in perfect order and 
completeness. He brings his total wealth into com- 
pany, and gravely unpacks it. His riches are always 
about him. He never stoops to catch a glittering 
something in your presence, to share it with you, be- 
fore he quite knows whether it be true touch or not.. 
You cannot cry halves to anything that he finds. He 
does not find, but bring.- You never witness his first 
apprehension of a thing. His understanding is al- 
ways at its meridian — you never see the first dawn, 
the early streaks. — He has no falterings of self-sus- 
picion. Surmises, guesses, misgivings, half-intui- 
tions, semi-consciousnesses, partial illuminations, dim 
instincts, embryo conceptions, have no place in his 
brain, or vocabulary. The twilight of dubiety never 
falls upon him. Is he orthodox — he has no doubts. 
Is he an infidel — he has none either. Between the 
affirmative and the negative there is no border-land 
with him. You cannot hover with him upon the 
confines of truth, or wander in the maze of a prob- 
able argument. He always keeps the path. You 



IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES 135 

cannot make excursions with him — for he sets you 
right. His taste never fluctuates. His morality 
never abates. He cannot compromise, or understand 
middle actions. There can be but a right and a 
wrong. His conversation is as a book. His affirma- 
tions have the sanctity of an oath. You must speak 
upon the square with him. He stops a metaphor like 
a suspected person in an enemy's country. ''A 
healthy book!" — said one of his countrymen to me, 
who had ventured to give that appellation to John 
Buncle,^^' ' did I catch rightly what you said? I 
have heard of a man in health, and of a healthy state 
of body, but I do not see how that epithet can be 
properly applied to a book." Above all, you must 
beware of indirect expressions before a Caledonian. 
Clap an extinguisher upon your irony, if you are un- 
happily blest with a vein of it. Remember you are 
upon your oath. I have a print of a graceful female 
after Leonardo da Vinci,^ which I was showing off to 
Mr. * * * *. After he had examined it minutely, I 
ventured to ask him how he liked my beauty (a 
foolish name it goes by among my friends) — ^when 
he very gravely assured me, that '*he had considerable 
respect for my character and talents" (so he was 
pleased to say), ''but had not given himself much 
thought about the degree of my personal pre- 
tensions. ' ' The misconception staggered me, but did 
not seem much to disconcert him. — Persons of this 
nation are particularly fond of affirming a truth — 
which nobody doubts. They do not so properly af- 



136 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

firm, as annunciate. They do indeed appear to have 
such a love of truth (as if, like virtue, it were valu- 
able for itself) that all truth becomes equally val- 
uable, whether the proposition that contains it be new 
or old, disputed, or such as is impossible to become 
a subject of disputation. I was present not long 
since at a party of North Britons, w^here a son of 
Burns ^ was expected ; and happened to drop a silly 
expression (in my South British way), that I wished 
it were the father instead of the son — when four of 
them started up at once to inform me, that ' ' that was 
impossible, because he was dead." An impracticable 
wish, it seems, was more than they could conceive. 
Swift ^ has hit off this part of their character, namely, 
their love of truth, in his biting way, but with an 
illiberality that necessarily confines the passages to 
the margin.* The tediousness of these people is cer- 
tainly provoking. I wonder if they ever tire one 
another! — In my early life I had a passionate fond- 
ness for the poetry of Burns. I have sometimes fool- 
ishly hoped to ingratiate myself with his countrymen 
by expressing it. But I have always found that a 
true Scot resents your admiration of his compatriot, 

* There are some people who think they sufficiently acquit 
themselves and entertain their company, with relating facts 
of no consequence, not at all out of the road of such common 
incidents as happen every day; and this I have observed more 
frequently among the Scots than any other nation, who are 
ver}^ careful not to omit the minutest circumstances of time 
or place; which kind of discourse, if it were not a little re- 
lieved by the uncouth terms and phrases, as well as accent 
and gesture peculiar to that country, would be hardly toler- 
able. — Hints towards an Essay on Conversation. 



IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES 137 

even more than he would your contempt of him. The 
latter he imputes to your ''imperfect acquaintance 
with many of the words which he uses ; ' ' and the same 
objection makes it a presumption in you to suppose 
that you can admire him. — Thomson ^ they seem to 
have forgotten. Smollett ^ they have neither forgot- 
ten nor forgiven for his delineation of Rory and his 
companion,^ upon their first introduction to our me- 
tropolis. — Speak of Smollett as a great genius, and 
they will retort upon you Hume 's History * compared 
with Ms Continuation of it. What if the historian 
had continued "''Humphrey Clinker"? 

I have, in the abstract, no disrespect for Jews. 
They are a piece of stubborn antiquity, compared 
with which Stonehenge ^ is in its nonage. They date 
beyond the pyramids. But I should not care to be 
in habits of familiar intercourse with any of that 
nation. I confess that I have not the nerves to enter 
their synagogues. Old prejudices cling about me. I 
cannot shake off the story of Hugh of Lincoln.^ Cen- 
turies of injury, contempt, and hate, on the one side, 
— of cloaked revenge, dissimulation, and hate, on the 
other, between our and their fathers, must, and ought 
to affect the blood of the children. I cannot believe 
it can run clear and kindly yet; or that a few fine 
words, such as candor, liberality, the light of a nine- 
teenth century, can close up the breaches of so deadly 
a disunion. A Hebrew is nowhere congenial to me. 
He is least distasteful on 'Change — for the mercan- 
tile spirit levels all distinctions, as all are beauties 



138 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

in the dark. I boldly confess that I do not relish the 
approximation of Jew and Christian, which has be- 
come so fashionable. The reciprocal endearments 
have, to me, something hypocritical and unnatural in 
them. I do not like to see the Church and Synagogue 
kissing and congeeing in awkward postures of an af- 
fected civility. If they are converted, why do they 
not come over to us altogether? Why keep up a 
form of separation, when the life of it is fled? If 
they can sit with us at table, why do they keck at our 
cookery? I do not understand these half convertites. 
Jews christianizing — Christians judaizing — puzzle me. 
I like fish or flesh. A moderate Jew is a more con- 
founding piece of anomaly than a wet Quaker. The 
spirit of the synagogue is essentially separative. 

B ^ would have been more in keeping if he had 

abided by the faith of his forefathers. There is a 
fine scorn in his face, which nature meant to be of 

Christians. The Hebrew spirit is strong in him, 

in spite of his proselytism. He cannot conquer the 
Shibboleth. How it breaks out, when he sings, "The 
Children of Israel passed through the Red Sea ! ' ' The 
auditors, for the moment, are as Egyptians to him, 
and he rides over our necks in triumph. There is no 

mistaking him. — B has a strong expression of 

sense in his countenance, and it is confirmed by his 
singing. The foundation of his vocal excellence is 
sense. He sings with understanding, as Kemble - de- 
livered dialogue. He would sing the Commandments, 
and give an appropriate character to each prohibi- 



IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES 139 

tion. His nation, in general, have not over-sensible 
countenances. How should they ? — but you seldom see 
a silly expression among them. Gain, and the pursuit 
of gain, sharpen a man's visage. I never heard of an 
idiot being born among them. — Some admire the Jew- 
ish female physiognomy. I admire it — but with trem- 
bling. Jael ^ had those full dark inscrutable eyes. 

In the Negro countenance you will often meet with 
strong traits of benignity. I have felt yearnings of 
tenderness towards some of these faces — or rather 
masks — that have looked out kindly upon one in cas- 
ual encounters in the streets and highways. I love 
what Fuller ^ beautifully calls — these ' ' images of God 
cut in ebony. ' ' But I should not like to associate with 
them, to share my meals and my good-nights with 
them — because they are black. 

I love Quaker ways, and Quaker worship. I ven- 
erate the Quaker principles. It does me good for the 
rest of the day when I meet any of their people in my 
path. When I am ruffled or disturbed by any occur- 
rence, the sight, or quiet voice of a Quaker, acts upon 
me as a ventilator, lightening the air, and taking off 
a load from the bosom. But I cannot like the Quakers 
(as Desdemona^ would say) "to live with them."* 
I am all over sophisticated — with humors, fancies, 
craving hourly sympathy. I must have books, pic- 
tures, theaters, chit-chat, scandal, jokes, ambiguities, 
and a thousand whim-whams, which their simpler 
taste can do without. I should starve at their primi- 
tive banquet. My appetites are too high for the 



140 TEE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

salads which (according to Evelyn) ^ Eve dressed for 
the angel, my gusto too excited 

To sit a guest with Daniel at his pulse. 

The indirect answers which Quakers are often 
found to return to a question put to them may be 
explained, I think, without the vulgar assumption, 
that they are more given to evasion and equivocating 
than other people. They naturally look to their 
words more carefully, and are more cautious of com- 
mitting themselves. They have a peculiar character 
to keep up on this head. They stand in a manner 
upon their veracity. A Quaker is by law exempted 
from taking an oath. The custom of resorting to an 
oath in extreme cases, sanctified as it is by all re- 
ligious antiquity, is apt (it must be confessed) to 
introduce into the laxer sort of minds the notion of 
two kinds of truth — the one applicable to the solemn 
affairs of justice, and the other to the common pro- 
ceedings of daily intercourse. As truth bound upon 
the conscience by an oath can be but truth, so in the 
common affirmations of the shop and the market-place 
a latitude is expected, and conceded upon questions 
wanting this solemn covenant. Something less than 
truth satisfies. It is common to hear a person say, 
''you do not expect me to speak as if I were upon 
my oath." Hence a great deal of incorrectness and 
inadvertency, short of falsehood, creeps into ordinary 
conversation ; and a kind of secondary or laic-truth is 
tolerated, where clergy-truth — oath-truth, by the na- 



IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES 141 

ture of the circumstances, is not required. A Quaker 
knows none of this distinction. His simple affirma- 
tion being received, upon the most sacred occasions, 
without any further test, stamps a value upon the 
words which he is to use upon the most indifferent 
topics of life. He looks to them, naturally, with more 
severity. You can have of him no more than his 
word. He knows, if he is caught tripping in a casual 
expression, he forfeits, for himself, at least, his claim 
to the invidious exemption. He knows that his syl- 
lables are weighed — and how far a consciousness of 
this particular watchfulness, exerted against a person, 
has a tendency to produce indirect answers, and a 
diverting of the question by honest means might be 
illustrated, and the practice justified, by a more sacred 
example than is proper to be adduced upon this oc- 
casion. The admirable presence of mind, which is 
notorious in Quakers upon all contingencies, might be 
traced to this imposed self-watchfulness — if it did 
not seem rather an humble and secular scion of that 
old stock of religious constancy, which never bent or 
faltered in the Primitive Friends, or gave way to the 
winds of persecution, to the violence of judge or ac- 
cuser, under trials and racking examinations. *'You 
will never be the wiser, if I sit here answering your 
questions till midnight," said one of those upright 
Justices to Penn, who had been putting law-cases with 
a puzzling subtlety. ' ' Thereafter as the answers may 
be, ' ' retorted the Quaker. The astonishing composure 
of this people is sometimes ludicrously displayed in 



142 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

lighter instances. — I was traveling in a stage coach 
with three male Quakers, buttoned up in the straitest 
nonconformity of their sect. We stopped to bait at 
Andover, where a meal, partly tea apparatus, partly 
supper, was set before us. My friends confined them- 
selves to the tea-table. I in my way took supper. 
When the landlady brought in the bill, the eldest of 
my companions discovered that she had charged for 
both meals. This was resisted. Mine hostess was 
very clamorous and positive. Some mild arguments 
were used on the part of the Quakers, for which the 
heated mind of the good lady seemed by no means a 
fit recipient. The guard came in with his usual per- 
emptory notice. The Quakers pulled out their money, 
and formally tendered it — so much for tea — I, in 
humble imitation, tendering mine — for the supper 
which I had taken. She would not relax in her de- 
mand. So they all three quietly put up their silver, 
as did myself, and marched out of the room, the eldest 
and gravest going first, with myself closing up the 
rear, who thought I could not do better than follow the 
example of such grave and warrantable personages. 
We got in. The steps went up. The coach drove off. 
The murmurs of mine hostess, not very indistinctly or 
ambiguously pronounced, became after a time in- 
audible — and now my conscience, which the whimsical 
scene had for a time suspended, beginning to give 
some twitches, I waited, in the hope that some justi- 
fication would be offered by these serious persons for 
the seeming injustice of their conduct. To my great 



WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT-FEARS 143 

surprise, not a syllable was dropped on the subject. 
They sat as mute as at a meeting. At length the eldest 
of them broke silence, by inquiring of his next neigh- 
bor, "Hast thee heard how indigos go at the India 
House ? " ^ and the question operated as a soporific on 
my moral feeling as far as Exeter. 

WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT-FEAES 

We are too hasty when we set down our ancestors in 
the gross for fools, for the monstrous inconsistencies 
(as they seem to us) involved in their creed of witch- 
craft. In the relations of this visible world we find 
them to have been as rational, and shrewd to detect 
an historic anomaly, as ourselves. But when once the 
invisible world was supposed to be opened, and the 
lawless agency of bad spirits assumed, what measures 
of probability, of decency, of fitness, or proportion — 
of that which distinguishes the likely from the palpa- 
ble absurd — could they have to guide them in the re- 
jection or admission of any particular testimony? — ■ 
that maidens pined away, wasting inwardly as their 
waxen images consumed before a fire — that corn was 
lodged, and cattle lamed — ^that whirlwinds uptore in 
diabolic revelry the oaks of the forest — or that spits 
and kettles only danced a fearful-innocent vagary 
about some rustic 's kitchen when no wind was stirring 
— ^were all equally probable where no law of agency 
was understood. That the prince of the powers of 
darkness, passing by the flower and pomp of the earth, 



144 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

snould lay preposterous siege to the weak fantasy of 
indigent eld — has neither likelihood nor unlikelihood 
a priori to us^ who have no measure to guess at his 
policy, or standard to estimate what rate those anile 
souls may fetch in the devil's market. Nor, when the 
wicked are expressly symbolized by a goat, was it to 
be wondered at so much, that he should come some- 
times in that body, and assert his metaphor. — That the 
intercourse was opened at all between both worlds 
was perhaps the mistake — but that once assumed, I 
see no reason for disbelieving one attested story of 
this nature more than another on the score of ab- 
surdity. There is no law to judge of the lawless, or 
canon by which a dream may be criticized. 

I have sometimes thought that I could not have ex- 
isted in the days of received witchcraft ; that I could 
not have slept in a village where one of those reputed 
hags dwelt. Our ancestors were bolder or more ob- 
tuse. Amidst the universal belief that these wretches 
were in league with the author of all evil, holding hell 
tributary to their muttering, no simple Justice of the 
Peace seems to have scrupled issuing, or silly 
Headborough serving, a warrant upon them — as if 
they should subpoena Satan ! — Prospero ^ in his boat, 
with his books and wand about him, suffers himself 
to be conveyed away at the mercy of his enemies to 
an unknown island. He might have raised a storm or 
two, we think, on the passage. His acquiescence is in 
exact analogy to the non-resistance of witches to the 
constituted powers. — What stops the Fiend in Spenser 



WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT-FEARS 145 

from tearing Guyon to pieces ^ — or who had made it a 
condition of his prey, that Guyon must take assay of 
the glorious bait — we have no guess. We do not 
know the laws of that country. 

From my childhood I was extremely inquisitive 
about witches and witch-stories. My maid, and more 
legendary aunt, supplied me with good store. But I 
shall mention the accident which directed my curios- 
ity originally into this channel. In my father's book- 
closet, the History of the Bible, by Stackhouse,^ occu- 
pied a distinguished station. The pictures with which 
it abounds — one of the ark, in particular, and another 
of Solomon 's temple, delineated with all the fidelity of 
ocular admeasurement, as if the artist had been upon 
the spot — attracted my childish attention. There was 
a picture, too, of the Witch raising up Samuel,^ which 
I wish that I had never seen. We shall come to that 
hereafter. Stackhouse is in two huge tomes — and 
there was a pleasure in removing folios of that magni- 
tude, which, with infinite straining, was as much as 
I could manage, from the situation which they occu- 
pied upon an upper shelf. I have not met with the 
work from that time to this, but I remember it con- 
sisted of Old Testament stories, orderly set down, 
with the ohjection appended to each story, and the 
solution of the objection regularly tacked to that. 
The objection was a summary of whatever difficulties 
had been opposed to the credibility of the history, by 
the shrewdness of ancient or modern infidelity, drawn 
up with an almost complimentary excess of candor. 



146 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

The solution was brief, modest, and satisfactory. The 
bane and antidote were both before yon. To donbts 
so put, and so qnashed, there seemed to be an end for 
ever. The dragon lay dead, for the foot of the veriest 
babe to trample on. But — like as was rather feared 
than realized from that slain monster in Spenser — 
from the womb of those crushed errors young drago- 
nets would creep, exceeding the prowess of so tender a 
Saint George ^ as myself to vanquish. The habit of 
expecting objections to every passage, set me upon 
starting more objections, for the glory of finding a 
solution of my own for them. I became staggered 
and perplexed, a sceptic in long coats. The pretty 
Bible stories which I had read, or heard read in 
church, lost their purity and sincerity of impression, 
and were turned into so many historic or chrono- 
logic theses to be defended against whatever im- 
pugners. I was not to disbelieve them, but — the next 
thing to that — I was to be quite sure that some one or 
other would or had disbelieved them. Next to making 
a child an infidel, is the letting him know that there 
are infidels at all. Credulity is the man's weakness, 
but the child's strength. 0, how ugly sound scrip- 
tural doubts from the mouth of a babe and a suckling ! 
— I should have lost myself in these mazes, and have 
pined away, I think, with such unfit sustenance as 
these husks afforded, but for a fortunate piece of ill- 
fortune, which about this time befell me. Turning 
over the picture of the ark with too much haste, I un- 
happily made a breach in its ingenious fabric — driv- 



WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT-FEABS 147 

ing my inconsiderate fingers right through the two 
larger quadrupeds — the elephant, and the camel — 
that stare (as well they might) out of the two last 
windows next the steerage in that unique piece of 
naval architecture. Stackhouse was henceforth 
locked up, and became an interdicted treasure. With 
the book, the objections and solutions gradually 
cleared out of my head, and have seldom returned 
since in any force to trouble me. — But there was one 
impression which I. had imbibed from Stackhouse, 
which no lock or bar could shut out, and which was 
destined to try my childish nerves rather more se- 
riously. — That detestable picture ! 

I was dreadfully alive to nervous terrors. The 
nighttime solitude, and the dark, were my hell. The 
sufferings I endured in this nature would justify the 
expression. I never laid my head on my pillow, I 
suppose, from the fourth to the seventh or eighth year 
of my life — so far as memory serves in things so long 
ago — ^without an assurance, which realized its own 
prophecy, of seeing some frightful specter. Be old 
Stackhouse then acquitted in part, if I say, that to his 
picture of the Witch raising up Samuel — (0 that 
old man covered with a mantle ! ) I owe — not my mid- 
night terrors, the hell of my infancy — but the shape 
and manner of their visitation. It was he who 
dressed up for me a hag that nightly sat upon my 
pillow — a sure bedfellow, w^hen my aunt or my maid 
was far from me. All day long, while the book was 
perniitted me, I dreamed waking over his delineation, 



148 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

and at night (if I may use so bold an expression) 
awoke into sleep, and found the vision true. I durst 
not, even in the daylight, once enter the chamber 
where I slept, without my face turned to the window, 
aversely from the bed where my witch-ridden pillow 
was. — Parents do not know what they do when they 
leave tender babes alone to go to sleep in the dark. 
The feeling about for a friendly arm — the hoping for 
a familiar voice — ^when they wake screaming- — and 
find none to soothe them — what a terrible shaking it 
is to their poor nerves ! The keeping them up till 
midnight, through candle-light and the unwholesome 
hours, as they are called, — would, I am satisfied, in a 
medical point of view, prove the better caution. — That 
detestable picture, as I have said, gave the fashion to 
my dreams — if dreams they were — for the scene of 
them was invariably the room in which I lay. Had I 
never met with the picture, the fears would have come 
self-pictured in some shape or other — 

Headless bear, black man, or ape i — 

but, as it was, my imaginations took that form. — It 
is not book, or picture, or the stories of foolish serv- 
ants, which create these terrors in children. They can 
at most but give them a direction. Dear little T. H.^ 
who of all children has been brought up with the most 
scrupulous exclusion of every taint of superstition — 
who was never allowed to hear of goblin or apparition, 
or scarcely to be told of bad men, or to read or hear 
of any distressing story — finds all this world of fear, 



WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT-FEARS 149 

from which he has been so rigidly excluded ah extra, 
in his own "thick-coming fancies ;" and from his little 
midnight pillow, this nnrse-child of optimism will 
start at shapes, unborrowed of tradition, in sweats 
to which the reveries of the cell-damned murderer are 
tranquillity. 

Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimseras i— dire stories 
of Celi^no and the Harpies 2— may reproduce them- 
selves in the brain of superstition — but they were 
there before. They are transcripts, types— the arche- 
types are in us, and eternal. How else should the 
recital of that, which we know in a waking sense to 
be false, come to affect us at all ? — or 

Names, whose sense we see not. 



Fray us with things that be not? 

Is it that we naturally conceive terror from such ob- 
jects, considered in their capacity of being able to in- 
flict upon us bodily injury?— 0, least of all! These 
terrors are of older standing. They date beyond body 
—or, without the body, they would have been the same. 
All the cruel, tormenting, defined devils in Dante — 
tearing:, mangling, choking, stifling, scorching de- 
mons — are they one half so fearful to the spirit of a 
man, as the simple idea of a spirit unembodied fol- 
lowing him — 

Like one that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 
And having once turn'd round, walks on. 
And turns no more his head; 



150 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread.* i 

That the kind of fear here treated of is purely spirit- 
ual — that it is strong in proportion as it is objectless 
upon earth — that it predominates in the period of 
sinless infancy — are difficulties, the solution of which 
might afford some probable insight into our ante- 
mundane condition, and a peep at least into the shad- 
ow-land of pre-existence. 

My night-fancies have long ceased to be afflictive. 
I confess an occasional night-mare; but I do not, as 
in early youth, keep a stud of them. Fiendish faces, 
with the extinguished taper, will come and look at 
me ; but I know them for mockeries, even while I can- 
not elude their presence, and I fight and grapple with 
them. For the credit of my imagination, I am almost 
ashamed to say how tame and prosaic my dreams are 
grown. They are never romantic, seldom even rural. 
They are of architecture and of buildings — cities 
abroad, which I have never seen, and hardly have 
hope to see. I have traversed, for the seeming length 
of a natural day, Kome, Amsterdam, Paris, Lisbon — 
their churches, palaces, squares, market-places, shops, 
suburbs, ruins, with an inexpressible sense of delight 
— a map-like distinctness of trace — and a daylight 
vividness of vision, that was all but being awake, — 
I have formerly traveled among the Westmoreland 
fells, — my highest Alps, — but they are objects too 
mighty for the grasp of my dreaming recognition ; 

* Mr. Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. 



WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT-FEARS 151 

and I have again and again awoke with ineffectual 
struggles of the inner eye, to make out a shape in any 
way whatever, of Helvellyn.^ Methought I was in 
that country, but the mountains were gone. The pov- 
erty of my dreams mortifies me. There is Coleridge, 
at his will can conjure up icy domes, and pleasure- 
houses for Kubla Khan, and Abyssinian maids, and 
songs of Abara, and caverns, 

Where Alph^ the sacred river, runs,2 

to solace his night solitudes — when I cannot muster a 
fiddle. Barry Cornwall ^ has his tritons and his 
nereids gamboling before him in nocturnal visions, 
and proclaiming sons born to Neptune * — when my 
stretch of imaginative activity can hardly, in the night 
season, raise up the ghost of a fish-wife. To set my 
failures in somewhat a mortifying light — it was after 
reading the noble Dream of this poet, that my fancy 
ran strong upon these marine spectra; and the poor 
plastic power, such as it is, within me set to work, 
to humor my folly in a sort of dream that very night. 
Methought I was upon the ocean billows at some sea 
nuptials, riding and mounted high, with the custo- 
mary train sounding their conches before me (I my- 
self, you may be sure, the leading god), and joUily 
we went careering over the main, till just where Ino 
Lucothea^ should have greeted me (I think it was Ino) 
with a white embrace, the billows gradually subsiding, 
fell from a sea-roughness to a sea-calm, and thence to 
a river-motion, and that river (as happens in the 



152 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

familiarization of dreams) was no other than the 
gentle Thames, which landed me, in the wafture of a 
placid wave or two, alone, safe and inglorious, some- 
where at the foot of Lambeth palace. 

The degree of the soul's creativeness in sleep might 
furnish no whimsical criterion of the quantum of 
poetical faculty resident in the same soul waking. 
An old gentleman, a friend of mine, and a humorist, 
used to carry this notion so far, that when he saw any 
stripling of his acquaintance ambitious of becoming a 
poet, his first question would be, — ''Young man, what 
sort of dreams have you?" I have so much faith in 
my old friend's theory, that when I feel that idle vein 
returning upon me, I presently subside into my proper 
element of prose, remembering those eluding nereids, 
and that inauspicious inland landing. 



MY RELATIONS 

I AM arrived at that point of life, at which a man may 
account it a blessing, as it is a singularity, if he have 
either of his parents surviving. I have not that fe- 
licity — and sometimes think feelingly of a passage in 
Browne 's Christian Morals,^ where he speaks of a man 
that hath lived sixty or seventy years in the world. 
*'In such a compass of time," he says, "a man may 
have a close apprehension what it is to be forgotten, 
when he hath lived to find none who could remember 
his father, or scarcely the friends of his youth, and 



MY RELATIONS 153 

may sensibly see with what a face in no long time Ob- 
livion will look upon himself." 

I had an aunt, a dear and good one. She was one 
whom single blessedness had soured to the world. She 
often used to say, that I was the only thing in it 
which she loved ; and, when she thought I was quitting 
it, she grieved over me with mother's tears. A par- 
tiality quite so exclusive my reason cannot altogether 
approve. She was from morning till night pouring 
over good books, and devotional exercises. Her fa- 
vorite volumes were Thomas a Kempis,^ in Stanhope's 
Translation ; and a Roman Catholic Prayer Book, 
with the matins and complines regularly set down, — 
terms which I was at that time too young to under- 
stand. She persisted in reading them, although ad- 
monished daily concerning their Papistical tendency; 
and went to church every Sabbath, as a good Protes- 
tant should do. These were the only books she stud- 
ied; though, I think, at one period of her life, 
she told me, she had read with great satisfaction the 
Adventures of an Unfortunate Young Nobleman. 
Finding the door of the chapel in Essex Street open 
one day — it was in the infancy of that heresy — she 
went in, liked the sermon, and the manner of wor- 
ship, and_frequented it at intervals for some time 
after. She came not for doctrinal points, and never 
missed them. With some little asperities in her con- 
stitution, which I have above hinted at, she was a 
steadfast, friendly being, and a fine old Christian. 
She was a woman of strong sense, and a shrewd mind 



154 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

— extraordinary at a repartee; one of the few occa- 
sions of her breaking silence — else she did not much 
value wit. The only secular employment I remember 
to have seen her engaged in, was, the splitting of 
French beans, and dropping them into a China basin 
of fair water. The odor of those tender vegetables 
to this day comes back upon my sense, redolent of 
soothing recollections. Certainly it is the most deli- 
cate of culinary operations. 

Male aunts, as somebody calls them, I had none — 
to remember. By the uncle's side I may be said to 
have been born an orphan. Brother, or sister, I never 
had any — to know them. A sister, I think, that 
should have been Elizabeth, died in both our infancies. 
"What a comfort, or what a care, may I not have 
missed in her! — But I have cousins, sprinkled about 
in Hertfordshire — besides two, with whom I have been 
all my life in habits of the closest intimacy, and 
whom I may term cousins par excellence. These are 
James and Bridget Elia.^ They are older than my- 
self by twelve, and ten, years; and neither of them 
seems disposed, in matters of advice and guidance, 
to waive any of the prerogatives which primogeniture 
confers. May they continue still in the same mind; 
and when they shall be seventy-five, and seventy- 
three years old (I cannot spare them sooner), persist 
in treating me in my grand climacteric precisely as a 
stripling, or younger brother! 

James is an inexplicable cousin. Nature hath her 
unities, which not every critic can penetrate ; or, if 



MY RELATIONS 155 

we feel, we cannot explain them. The pen of Yorick/ 
and of none since his, could have drawn J. E. entire 
■ — ^those fine Shandian lights and shades,^ which make 
up his story, I must limp after in my poor anti- 
thetical manner, as the fates have given me grace and 
talent. J. E. then — to the eye of a common observer 
at least — seemeth made up of contradictory princi- 
ples. — The genuine child of impulse, the frigid 
philosopher of prudence — the phlegm of my cousin's 
doctrine is invariably at war with his temperament, 
which is high sanguine. AVith always some fire-new 
project in his brain, J. E. is the systematic opponent 
of innovation, and crier down of everything that 
has not stood the test of age and experiment. With 
a hundred fine notions chasing one another hourly 
in his fancy, he is startled at the least approach to 
the romantic in others; and, determined by his own 
sense in everything, commends you to the guidance 
of common sense on all occasions. — With a touch of 
the eccentric in all which he does, or says, he is only 
anxious that you should not commit yourself by do- 
ing anything absurd or singular. On my once letting 
slip at table, that I was not fond of a certain popular 
dish, he begged me at any rate not to say so — for the 
world would think me mad. He disguises a passionate 
fondness for works of high art (whereof he hath 
amassed a choice collection), under the pretext of 
buying only to sell again — that his enthusiam may 
give no encouragement to yours. Yet, if it were so, 
why does that piece of tender, pastoral Dominichino ^ 



156 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

hang still by his wall? — is the ball of his sight much 
more dear to him? — or what picture-dealer can talk 
like him? 

Whereas mankind in general are observed to warp 
their speculative conclusions to the bent of their in- 
dividual humors, liis theories are sure to be in dia- 
metrical opposition to his constitution. He is cour- 
ageous as Charles of Sweden/ upon instinct ; chary of 
his person, upon principle, as a traveling Quaker. — He 
has been preaching up to me, all my life, the doctrine 
of bowing to the great — the necessity of forms, and 
manner, to a man's getting on in the world. He him- 
self never aims at either, that I can discover, — and 
has a spirit, that would stand upright in the presence 
of the Cham of Tartary.^ It is pleasant to hear him 
discourse of patience — extolling it as the truest wis- 
dom — and to see him during the last seven minutes 
that his dinner is getting ready. Nature never ran 
up in her haste a more restless piece of workmanship 
than when she molded this impetuous cousin — and 
Art never turned out a more elaborate orator than he 
can display himself to be, upon his favorite topic of 
the advantages of quiet, and contentedness in the 
state, whatever it be, that we are placed in. He is 
triumphant on this theme, when he has you safe in 
one of those short stages that ply for the western road, 
in a very obstructing manner, at the foot of John 
Murray's street — where you get in when it is empty, 
and are expected to wait till the vehicle hath com- 
pleted her just freight — a trying three-quarters of 



MY RELATIONS 157 

an hour to some people. He wonders at your fidgeti- 
ness, — ''where could we be better than we are, thus 
sitting, thus consulting?" — "prefers, for his part, a 
state of rest to locomotion," — with an eye all the 
while upon the coachman — till at length, waxing out 
of all patience, at your want of it, he breaks out into 
a pathetic remonstrance at the fellow for detaining 
us so long over the time which he had professed, and 
declares peremptorily, that "the gentleman in the 
coach is determined to get out, if he does not drive 
on that instant." 

Very quick at inventing an argument, or detecting 
a sophistry, he is incapable of attending you in any 
chain of arguing. Indeed he makes wild work with 
logic ; and seems to jump at most admirable conclu- 
sions by some process, not at all akin to it. Con- 
sonantly enough to this, he hath been heard to deny, 
upon certain occasions, that there exists such a faculty 
at all in man as reason; and wondereth how man came 
first to have a conceit of it — enforcing his negation 
with all the might of reasoning he is master of. He 
has some speculative notions against laughter, and will 
maintain that laughing is not natural to him — when 
peradventure the next moment his lungs shall crow 
like Chanticleer. He says some of the best things in 
the world — and declareth that wit is his aversion. It 
was he who said, upon seeing the Eton boys at play 
in their grounds — What a pity to think, that these 
fine ingenuous lads in a few years will all he changed 
into frivolous Members of Parliament ! 



158 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA ■ 

His youth was fiery, glowing, tempestuous — and 
in age he discovereth no symptom of cooling. This 
is that which I admire in him. I hate people who 
meet Time half-way. I am for no compromise with 
that inevitable spoiler. While he lives, J. E. will 
take his swing. — It does me good, as I walk towards 
the street of my daily avocation, on some fine May 
morning, to meet him marching in a quite opposite 
direction, with a jolly handsome presence and 
shining sanguine face, that indicates some purchase in 
his eye — a Claude — or a Hobbima ^ — for much of his 
enviable leisure is consumed at Christie's, and Phil- 
lips 's - — or where not, to pick up pictures, and such 
gauds. On these occasions he mostly stoppeth me, 
to read a short lecture on the advantage a person like 
me possesses above himself, in having his time occu- 
pied with business which he must do — assureth me 
that he often feels it hang heavy on his hands — wishes 
he had fewer holidays — and goes off — Westward Ho !^ 
— chanting a tune, to Pall Mall — perfectly convinced 
that he has convinced me — while I proceed in my op- 
posite direction tuneless. 

It is pleasant again to see this Professor of In- 
difference doing the honors of his new purchase, 
when he has fairly housed it. You must view it in 
every light till he has found the best — placing it at 
this distance, and at that, but always suiting the 
focus of your sight to his own. You must spy at it 
through your fingers, to catch the aerial perspective — 
though you assure him that to you the landscape 



MY RELATIONS 159 

shows much more agreeable without that artifice. 
Woe be to the luckless wight, who does not only not 
respond to his rapture, but who should drop an un- 
seasonable intimation of preferring one of his an- 
terior bargains to the present! — The last is always 
his best hit — his ' ' Cynthia of the minute. ' ' ^ Alas I 
how many a mild Madonna ^ have I known to come in 
— a Raphael !^ — keep its ascendency for a few brief 
moons — then, after certain intermedial degradations 
from the front drawing-room to the back gallery, 
thence to the dark parlor, — adopted in turn by each 
of the Carracci/ under successive lowering ascriptions 
of filiation, mildly breaking its fall — consigned to the 
oblivious lumber-room, go out at last a Lucca Gior- 
dano,^ or plain Carlo Maratti ! ® — which things when I 
beheld — musing upon the chances and mutabilities of 
fate below, hath made me to reflect upon the altered 
condition of great personages, or that woeful Queen 
of Richard the Second — 

set forth in pomp, 



She came adorned hither like sweet May. 
Sent back like Hollowmass or shortest day.7 

With great love for you, J. E. hath but a limited 
sympathy with what you feel or do. He lives in a 
world of his own, and makes slender guesses at what 
passes in your mind. He never pierces the marrow 
of your habits. He will tell an old established play- 
goer, that Mr. Such-a-one, of So-and-so (naming one 
of the theaters), is a very lively comedian — as a piece 



160 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

of news! He advertised me but the other day of 
some pleasant green lanes which he had found out 
for me, knowing me to he a great walker, in my own 
immediate vicinity — who have haunted the identical 
spot any time these twenty years ! — He has not much 
respect for that class of feelings which goes by the 
name of sentimental. He applies the definition of 
real evil to bodily suffering exclusively — and rejecteth 
all others as imaginary. He is affected by the sight, 
of the bare supposition, of a creature in pain, to a 
degree which I have never witnessed out of woman- 
kind. A constitutional acuteness to this class of suf- 
ferings may in part account for this. The animal 
tribe in particular he taketh under his especial pro- 
tection. A broken-winded or spur-galled horse is 
sure to find an advocate in him. An over-loaded ass 
is his client for ever. He is the apostle to the brute 
kind — the never failing friend of those who have none 
to care for them. The contemplation of a lobster 
boiled, or eels skinned alive, will wring him so, that 
''all for pity he could die." It will take the savor 
from his palate, and the rest from his pillow, for days 
and nights. With the intense feeling of Thomas 
Clarkson,^ he wanted only the steadiness of pursuit, 
and unity of purpose, of that ''true yoke-fellow with 
Time," ^ to have effected as much for the Animal, as 
he hath done for the Negro Creation. But my un- 
controllable cousin is but imperfectly formed for pur- 
poses which demand co-operation. He cannot wait. 
His amelioration-plans must be ripened in a day. 



MY RELATIONS ' 161 

For this reason he has cut but an equivocal figure in 
benevolent societies, and combinations for the allevia- 
tion of human sufferings. His zeal constantly makes 
him to outrun, and put out his co-adjutors. He thinks 
of relieving, — while they think of debating. He was 
black-balled out of a society for the Relief of * * * 
* *, because the fervor of his humanity toiled 
beyond the formal apprehension, and creeping pro- 
cesses, of his associates. I shall always consider this 
distinction as a patent of nobility in the Elia family ! 

Do I mention these seeming inconsistencies to smile 
at, or upbraid, my unique cousin? Marry, heaven, 
and all good manners, and the understanding that 
should be between kinsfolk, forbid? — With all the 
strangeness of this strangest of the Elias — I would 
not have him in one jot or tittle other than he is; 
neither would I barter or exchange my wild kinsman 
for the most exact, regular, and every-way consistent 
kinsman breathing. 

In my next, reader, I may perhaps give you some 
account of my cousin Bridget — ^if you are not already 
surfeited with cousins — and take you by the hand, if 
you are willing to go with us, on an excursion which 
we made a summer or two since, in search of more 
cousins — 

Through the green plains of pleasant Hertfordshire.! 



162 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 



MACKERY END, IN HERTFORDSHIRE 

Bridget Elia has been my housekeeper for many a 
long year. I have obligations to Bridget, extending 
beyond the period of memory. We house together, 
old bachelor and maid, in a sort of double singleness ; 
with such tolerable comfort, upon the whole, that I, 
for one, find in myself no sort of disposition to go out 
upon the mountains, with the rash king's offspring,^ 
to bewail my celibacy. We agree pretty well in our 
tastes and habits — yet so, as ''with a difference." 
We are generally in harmony, with occasional bick- 
erings — as it should be among near relations. Our 
sympathies are rather understood, than expressed; 
and once, upon my dissembling a tone in my voice 
more kind than ordinary, my cousin burst into tears, 
and complained that I was altered. We are both 
great readers in different directions. While I am 
hanging over (for the thousandth time) some passage 
in old Burton,^ or one of his strange contemporaries, 
she is abstracted in some modern tale, or adventure, 
whereof our common reading-table is daily fed with 
assiduously fresh supplies. Narrative teases me. I 
have little concern in the progress of events. She 
must have a story — well, ill, or indifferently told — 
so there be life stirring in it, and plenty of good or 
evil accidents. The fluctuations of fortune in fiction 
— and almost in real life — have ceased to interest, or 
operate but dully upon me. Out-of-the-way humors 



MACKEBY END, IN HERTFORDSHIRE 163 

and opinions — heads with some diverting twist in 
them — the oddities of authorship please me most. My 
cousin has a native disrelish of any thing that sounds 
odd or bizarre. Nothing goes down with her, that is 
quaint, irregular, or out of the road of common sym- 
pathy. She ''holds Nature more clever." I can 
pardon her blindness to the beautiful obliquities of 
the Religio Medici ; ^ but she must apologize to me for 
certain disrespectful insinuations, which she has been 
pleased to throw out latterly, touching the intellec- 
tuals of a dear favorite of mine, of the last century 
but one — the thrice noble, chaste, and virtuous, — but 
again somewhat fantastical, and original-brain 'd, 
generous Margaret Newcastle.^ 

It has been the lot of my cousin, oftener perhaps 
than I could have wished, to have had for her assor 
ciates and mine, free-thinkers — leaders, and disciples, 
of novel philosophies and systems; but she neither 
wrangles with, nor accepts, their opinions. That 
which was good and venerable to her, when a child, 
retains its authority over her mind still. She never 
juggles or plays tricks with her understanding. 

We are both of us inclined to be a little too posi- 
tive; and I have observed the result of our disputes 
to be almost uniformly this — that in matters of fact, 
dates, and circumstances, it turns out, that I was in 
the right, and my cousin in the wrong. But where 
we have differed upon moral points; upon something 
proper to be done, or let alone ; whatever heat of op- 
position, or steadiness of conviction, I set out with, 



164 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

I am sure always, in the long run, to be brought over 
to her way of thinking. 

I must touch upon the foibles of my kinswoman 
with a gentle hand, for Bridget does not like to be 
told of her faults. She hath an awkward trick (to 
say no worse of it) of reading in company: at which 
times she will answer yes or no to a question without 
fully understanding its purport — which is provok- 
ing, and derogatory in the highest degree to the dig- 
nity of the putter of the said question. Her presence 
of mind is equal to the most pressing trials of life, 
but will sometimes desert her upon trifling occasions. 
When the purpose requires it, and is a thing of mo- 
ment, she can speak to it greatly; but in matters 
which are not stuff of the conscience, she hath been 
known sometimes to let slip a word less seasonably. 

Her education in youth was not much attended to ; 
and she happily missed all that train of female garni- 
ture, which passeth by the name of accomplishments. 
She was tumbled early, by accident or design, into a 
spacious closet of good old English reading^ without 
much selection or prohibition, and browsed at will 
upon that fair and wholesome pasturage. Had I 
twenty girls, they should be brought up exactly in 
this fashion. I know not whether their chance in 
wedlock might not be diminished by it; but I can 
answer for it, that it makes (if the worst come to the 
worst) most incomparable old maids. 

In a season of distress, she is the truest comforter; 
but in the teasing accidents, and minor perplexities, 



MACKERY END, IN HEBTFORDSHIBE 165 

which do call out the will to meet them, she some- 
times maketh matters worse by an excess of partici- 
pation. If she does not always divide your trouble, 
upon the pleasanter occasions of life she is sure 
always to treble your satisfaction. She is excellent 
to be at a play with, or upon a visit ; but best, when 
she goes a journey with you. 

We made an excursion together a few summers 
since, into Hertfordshire, to beat up the quarters of 
some of our less-known relations in that fine corn 
country. 

The oldest thing I remember is Mackery End; or 
Mackarel End, as it is spelt, perhaps more properly, 
in some old maps of Hertfordshire; a farm-house, — 
delightfully situated within a gentle walk from 
Wheathampstead. I can just remember having been 
there, on a visit to a great-aunt, when I was a child, 
under the care of Bridget; who, as I have said, is 
older than myself by some ten years. I wish that I 
could throw into a heap the remainder of our joint 
existences, that we might share them in equal division. 
But that is impossible. The house was at that time 
in the occupation of a substantial yeoman, who had 
married my grandmother's sister. His name was 
Gladman. My grandmother was a Bruton, married 
to a Field. The Gladmans and the Brutons are still 
flourishing in that part of the country, but the Fields 
are almost extinct. More than forty years had 
elapsed since the visit I speak of ; and for the greater 
portion of that period, we had lost sight of the other 



166 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

two branches also. Who or what sort of persons in- 
herited Mackery End — kindred or strange folk — we 
were afraid almost to conjecture, but determined some 
day to explore. 

By somewhat a circuitous route, taking the -noble 
park at Luton in our way from St. Alban's, we ar- 
rived at the spot of our anxious curiosity about noon. 
The sight of the old farm-house, though every trace 
of it was effaced from my recollection, affected me 
with a pleasure which I had not experienced for many 
a year. For though I had forgotten it, we had never 
forgotten being there together, and we had been talk- 
ing about Mackery End all our lives, till memory on 
my part became mocked with a phantom of itself, 
and I thought I knew the aspect of a place, which, 
when present, how unlike it was to that, which I 
had conjured up so many times instead of it ! 

Still the air breathed balmily about it; the season 

was in the "heart of June," and I could say with the 

poet. 

But thou, that didst appear so fair 

To fond imagination, 
Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation! i 

Bridget's was more a waking bliss than mine, for 
she easily remembered her old acquaintance again — 
some altered features of course, a little grudged at. 
At first, indeed, she was ready to disbelieve for joy; 
but the scene soon re-confirmed itself in her affections 
— and she traversed every out-post of the old man- 



MACEERY END, IN HERTFORDSHIBE 167 

sion, to the wood-house, the orchard, the place where 
the pigeon-house had stood (house and birds were 
alike flown) with a breathless impatience of recogni- 
tion, which was more pardonable perhaps than deco- 
rous at the- age of fifty odd. But Bridget in some 
things is behind her years. 

The only thing left was to get into the house — and 
that was a difficulty which to me singly would have 
been insurmountable ; for I am terribly shy in making 
myself known to strangers and out-of-date kinsfolk. 
Love, stronger than scruple, winged my cousin in 
without me; but she soon returned with a creature 
that might have sat to a sculptor for the image of 
Welcome. It was the youngest of the Gladmans; 
who, by marriage with a Bruton, had become mistress 
of the old mansion. A comely brood are the Brutons. 
Six of them, females, were noted as the handsomest 
young women in the county. But this adopted Bru- 
ton, in my mind, was better than they all — more 
comely. She was born too late to have remembered 
me. She just recollected in early life to have had 
their cousin Bridget once pointed out to her, climbing 
a stile. But the name of kindred, and of cousinship, 
was enough. Those slender ties, that prove slight as 
gossamer in the rending atmosphere of a metropolis, 
bind faster, as we found it, in hearty, homely, loving 
Hertfordshire. In five minutes we were as thoroughly 
acquainted as if we had been bom and bred up to- 
gether; were familiar, even to the calling each other 
by our Christian names. So Christians should call 



168 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

one another. To have seen Bridget, and her — it was 
like the meeting of the two scriptural cousins! There 
was a grace and dignity, an amplitude of form and 
stature, answering to her mind, in this farmer's wife, 
which would have shined in a palace — or so we 
thought it. We were made welcome by husband and 
wife equally — we, and our friend that was with us. — 
I had almost forgotten him — but B. F.^ will not so 
soon forget that meeting, if peradventure he shall 
read this on the far distant shores where the Kanga- 
roo haunts. The fatted calf was made ready, or 
rather was already so, as if in anticipation of our 
coming; and, after an appropriate glass of native 
wine, never let me forget with what honest pride this 
hospitable cousin made us proceed to Wheathamp- 
stead, to introduce us (as some new-found rarity) to 
her mother and sister Gladmans, who did indeed 
kaow something more of us, at a time when she al- 
most knew nothing. — With what corresponding kind- 
ness we were received by them also — how Bridget's 
memory, exalted by the occasion, warmed into a thou- 
sand half-obliterated recollections of things and per- 
sons, to my utter astonishment, and her own — and to 
the a^toundment of B. F. who sat by, almost the only 
thing that was not a cousin there, — old effaced images 
of more than half -forgotten names and circumstances 
still crowding back upon her, as words written in 
lemon come out upon exposure to a friendly warmth, 
— when I forget all this, then may my country cousins 
forget me ; and Bridget no more remember, that in 



MODERN GALLANTRY 169 

the days of weakling infancy I was her tender charge 
— as I have been her care in foolish manhood since — 
in those pretty pastoral walks, long ago, about Mack- 
ery End, in Hertfordshire. 

MODERN GALLANTRY 

In comparing modern with ancient manners, we are 
pleased to compliment ourselves upon the point of 
gallantry; a certain obsequiousness, or deferential 
respect, which wo are supposed to pay to females, as 
females. 

I shall believe that this principle actuates our con- 
duct, when I can forget, that in the nineteenth cen- 
tury of the era from which we date our civility, we 
are but just beginning to leave off the very frequent 
practice of whipping females in public, in common 
with the coarsest male offenders. 

I shall believe it to be influential, when I can shut 
my eyes to the fact, that in England women are still 
occasionally — ^hanged. 

I shall believe in it, when actresses are no longer 
subject to be hissed off a stage by gentlemen. 

I shall believe in it, when Dorimant ^ hands a fish- 
wife across the kennel ; or assists the apple-woman to 
pick up her wandering fruit, which some unlucky 
dray has just dissipated. 

I shall believe in it, when the Dorimants in humbler 
life, who would be thought in their way notable 
adepits in this refinement, shall act upon it in places 



170 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

where they are not known, or think themselves not 
observed — when I shall see the traveler for some rich 
tradesman part with his admired box-coat, to spread 
it over the defenseless shoulders of the poor woman, 
who is passing to her parish on the roof of the same 
stage-coach with him, drenched in the rain — when I 
shall no longer see a woman standing up in the pit of 
a London theater, till she is sick and faint with the 
exertion, with men about her, seated at their ease, 
and jeering at her distress; till one, that seems to 
have more manners or conscience than the rest, sig- 
nificantly declares "she should be welcome to his 
seat, if she were a little younger, and handsomer." 
Place this dapper warehouseman, or that rider, in a 
circle of their own female acquaintance, and you shall 
confess you have not seen a politer-bred man in Loth- 
bury. 

Lastly, I shall begin to believe that there is some 
such principle influencing our conduct, when more 
than one-half of the drudgery and coarse servitude 
of the world shall cease to be performed by women. 

Until that day comes, I shall never believe this 
boasted point to be anything more than a conventional 
fiction; a pageant got up between the sexes, in a cer- 
tain rank, and at a certain time of life, in which both 
find their account equally. 

I shall be even disposed to rank it among the salu- 
tary fictions of life, when in polite circles I shall see 
the same attentions paid to age as to youth, to homely 
features as to handsome, to coarse complexions as to 



MODERN GALLANTRY 171 

clear— to the woman, as she is a woman, not as she 
is a beauty, a fortune, or a title. 

I shall believe it to be something more than a name, 
when a well-dressed gentleman in a well-dressed com- 
pany can advert to the topic of female old age without 
exciting, and intending to excite, a sneer :— when the 
phrases "antiquated virginity," and such a one has 
"overstood her market," pronounced in good com- 
pany, shall raise immediate offense in man, or woman, 
that shall hear them spoken. 

Joseph Paice, of Bread Street Hill, merchant, and 
one of the Directors of the South-Sea company— the 
same to whom Edwards, the Shakespeare commenta- 
tor, has addressed a fine sonnet— was the only pattern 
of consistent gallantry I have met with. He took me 
under his shelter at an early age, and bestowed some 
pains upon me. I owe to his precepts and example 
whatever there is of the man of business (and that is 
not much) in my composition. It was not his fault 
that I did not profit more. Though bred a Presby- 
terian, and brought up a merchant, he was the finest 
gentleman of his time. He had not one system of 
attention to females in the drawing-room, and another 
m the shop, or at the stall. I do not mean that he 
made no distinction. But he never lost sight of sex, 
or overlooked it in the casualties of a disadvantageous 
situation. I have seen him stand bare-headed— smile 
if you please— to a poor servant girl, while she has 
been inquiring of him the way to some street — in such 
a posture of unforced civility, as neither to embar- 



172 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

rass her in the acceptance, nor himself in the offer, 
of it. He was no dangler, in the common accepta- 
tion of the word^ after women : but he reverenced 
and upheld, in every form in which it came before 
him, womanhood. I have seen him — nay, smile not — 
tenderly escorting a market-woman, whom he had en- 
countered in a shower, exalting his umbrella over her 
poor basket of fruit, that it might receive no damage, 
with as much carefulness as if she had been a Count- 
ess. To the reverend form of Female Eld he would 
yield the wall (though it were to an ancient beggar- 
woman) with more ceremony than we can afford to 
show our grandams. He was the Preux Chevalier ^ 
of Age ; the Sir Calidore, or Sir Tristan,- to those who 
have no Calidores or Tristans to defend them. The 
roses, that had long faded thence, still bloomed for 
him in those withered and yellow cheeks. 

He was never married^ but in his youth he paid his 
addresses to the beautiful Susan Winstanley — old 
Winstanley's daughter of Clapton — who dying in the 
early days of their courtship, confirmed in him the 
resolution of perpetual bachelorship. It was during 
their short courtship, he told me, that he had been 
one day treating his mistress with a profusion of civil 
speeches — the common gallantries — to which kind of 
thing she had hitherto manifested no repugnance — 
but in this instance with no effect. He could not ob- 
tain from her a decent acknowledgment in return. 
She rather seemed to resent his compliments. He 
could not set it down to caprice, for the lady had 



MODERN GALLANTRY 173 

always shown herself above that littleness. "When he 
ventured on the following day, finding her a little bet- 
ter hnmored, to expostulate with her on her coldness 
of yesterday, she confessed, with her usual frankness, 
that she had no sort of dislike to his attentions ; that 
she could even endure some high-flown compliments; 
that a young woman placed in her situation had a 
right to expect all sort of civil things said to her ; that 
she hoped she could digest a dose of adulation, short 
of insincerity, with as little injury to her humility 
as most young women :. but that — a little before he 
had commenced his compliments — she had overheard 
him by accident, in a rather rough language, rating a 
young woman, who had not brought home his cravats 
quite to the appointed time, and she thought to her- 
self, "As I am Miss Susan Winstanley, and a young 
lady — a reputed beauty, and known to be a fortune, 
— I can have my choice of the finest speeches from 
the mouth of this very fine gentleman who is courting 
me — but if I had been poor Mary Such-a-one {naming 
the milliner), — and had failed of bringing home the 
cravats to the appointed hour — though perhaps I had 
sat up half the night to forward them — what sort of 
compliments should I have received then? — And my 
woman's pride came to my assistance; and I thought, 
that if it were only to do me honor, a female, like my- 
self, might have received handsomer usage : and I 
was determined not to accept any fine speeches, to the 
compromise of that sex, the belonging to which was 
after all my strongest claim and title to them." 



174 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

I think the lady discovered both generosity, and a 
just way of thinking, in this rebuke which she gave her 
lover; and I have sometimes imagined, that the un- 
common strain of courtesy, which through life regu- 
lated the actions and behavior of my friend towards 
all of womankind indiscriminately, owed its happy 
origin to this seasonable lesson from the lips of his 
lamented mistress. 

I wish the whole female world would entertain the 
same notion of these things that Miss Winstanley 
showed. Then we should see something of the spirit 
of consistent gallantry; and no longer witness the 
anomaly of the same man — a pattern of true polite- 
ness to a wife — of cold contempt, or rudeness, to a 
sister — the idolater of his female mistress — the 
disparager and despiser of his no less female 
aunt, or unfortunate — still female — maiden cousin. 
Just so much respect as a woman derogates from 
her own sex, in whatever condition placed — her 
handmaid, or dependent — she deserves to have 
diminished from herself on that score ; and prob- 
ably will feel the diminution, when youth, and 
beauty, and advantages, not inseparable from sex, 
shall lose of their attraction. What a woman 
should demand of a man in courtship, or after 
it, is first — respect for her as she is a woman; — and 
next to that — to be respected by him above all other 
women. But let her stand upon her female character 
as upon a foundation ; and let the attentions, incident 
to individual preference, be so many pretty addita- 



TRE OLD BENCHERS 175 

ments and ornaments — as many, and as fanciful, as 
you please — to that main structure. Let her first 
lesson be — with sweet Susan Winstanley — to rever- 
ence her sex. 



THE OLD BENCHERS OF THE INNER TEM- 
PLE 

I WAS born, and passed the first seven years of my life, 
in the Temple. Its church, its halls, its gardens, its 
fountain, its river, I had almost said — for in those 
young years, what was this king of rivers to me but a 
stream that watered our pleasant places? — these are 
my oldest recollections. I repeat, to this day, no 
verses to myself more frequently, or with kindler 
emotion, than those of Spenser, where he speaks of 
this spot. 

There when they came, whereas those bricky towers. 
The which on Themmes brode aged back doth ride, 
Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers. 
There whylome wont the Temphir knights to bide, 
Till they decayd through pride.2 

Indeed, it is the most elegant spot in the metropo- 
lis. What a transition for a countryman visiting 
London for the first time — the passing from the 
crowded Strand or Fleet Street, by unexpected ave- 
nues, into its magnificent ample squares, its classic 
green recesses! What a clieerful, liberal look hath 
that portion of it, which, from three sides, overlooks 
the greater garden ; that goodly pile 



176 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Of building strong, albeit of Paper bight, 

confronting, with massy contrast, the lighter, older, 
more fantastically shrouded one, named of Harcourt, 
with the cheerful Crown Office Row (place of my 
kindly engendure), right opposite the stately stream, 
which washes the garden-foot with her yet scarcely 
trade-polluted waters, and seems but just weaned 
from her Twickenham Naiades ! ^ a man would give 
something to have been born in such places. What a 
collegiate aspect has that fine Elizabethan hall, where 
the fountain plays, which I have made to rise and 
fall, how many times! to the astoundment of the 
young urchins, my contemporaries, who, not being 
able to guess at its recondite machinery, were almost 
tempted to hail the wondrous work as magic ! What 
an antique air had the now almost effaced sun-dials 
with their moral inscriptions, seeming coevals with 
that Time which they measured, and to take their 
revelations of its flight immediately from heaven, 
holding correspondence with the fountain of light ! 
How would the dark line steal imperceptibly on, 
watched by the eye of childhood, eager to detect its 
movement, never catched, nice as an evanescent cloud, 
or the first arrests of sleep ! 

Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial -hand 

Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived! 2 

What a dead thing is a clock, with its ponderous 
embowelments of lead and brass, its pert or solemn 
dullness of communication, compared with the simple 



THE OLD BENCHERS 111 

altar-like structure, and silent heart language of the 
old dial! It stood as the garden god of Christian 
gardens. Why is it almost everywhere vanished? 
If its business use be superseded by more elaborate 
inventions, its moral uses, its beauty, might have 
pleaded foi? its continuance. It spoke of moderate 
labors, of pleasures not protracted after sunset, of 
temperance, and good-hours. It was the primitive 
clock, the horologe of the first world. Adam could 
scarce have missed it in Paradise. It was the measure 
appropriate for sweet plants and flowers to spring 
by, for the birds to apportion their silver warblings 
by, for flocks to pasture and be led to fold by. The 
shepherd "carved it out quaintly in the sun";^ and, 
turning philosopher by the very occupation, pro- 
vided it with mottoes more touching than tombstones. 
It was a pretty device of the gardener, recorded by 
Marvell,^ who, in the days of artificial gardening, 
made a dial out of herbs and flowers. I must quote 
his verses a little higher up, for they are full, as all 
his serious poetry was, of a witty delicacy. They 
will not come in awkwardly, I hope, in a talk of 
fountains and sundials. He is speaking of sweet 
garden scenes : 

What wondrous Hfe is this I lead! 
Ripe apples drop about my head. 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine. 
The nectarine, and curious peach, 
Into my hands themselves do reach. 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 



178 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

Tnsnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 
Withdraws into its happiness. 
The mind, that ocean, where each kind 
Does straight its own resemblance find; 
Yet it creates, transcending these. 
Far other worlds, and other seas; 
Annihilating all that's made 
To a green thought in a green shade 
Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 
Or at some fruit tree's mossy root, 
Casting the body's vest aside, 
My soul into the boughs does glide: 
There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 
Then whets and claps its silver wings; 
And, till prepared for longer flight. 
Waves in its plumes the various light. 
How well the skilful gardener drew. 
Of flowers and herbs, this dial new! 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 
And, as it works, the industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 
How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers ? * i 

The artificial fountains of the metropolis are, in 
like manner, fast vanishing. Most of them are dried 
up, or bricked over. Yet, where one is left, as in 
that little green nook behind the South Sea House, 
what a freshness it gives to the dreary pile ! Four 
little winged marble boys used to play their virgin 
fancies, spouting out ever fresh streams from their 

* From a copy of verses entitled The Garden. 



THE OLD BENCHERS 179 

innocent-wanton lips, in the square of Lincoln's Inn, 
when I was no bigger than they were figured. They 
are gone, and the spring choked up. The fashion, 
they tell me, is gone by, and these things are es- 
teemed childish. Why not then gratify children, by 
letting them stand? Lawyers, I suppose, were chil- 
dren once. They are awakening images to them at 
least. Why must everything smack of man, and 
mannish? Is the world all grown up? Is child- 
hood dead? Or is there not in the bosoms of the 
wisest and the best some of the child's heart left, to 
respond to its earliest enchantments? The figures 
were grotesque. Are the stiff-wigged living figures 
that still flitter and chatter about that area, less 
gothic in appearance? or is the splutter of their hot 
rhetoric one half so refreshing and innocent as the 
little cool playful streams those exploded cherubs 
uttered ? 

They have lately gothicized the entrance to the 
Inner Temple hall, and the library front, to assimi- 
late them, I suppose, to the body of the hall, which 
they do not at all resemble. What is become of the 
winged horse that stood over the former? a stately 
arms! and who has removed those frescoes of the 
Virtues, which Italianized the end of the Paper- 
buildings? — my first hint of allegory! They must 
account to me for these things, which I miss so 
greatly. 

The terrace is, indeed, left, which we used to call 
the parade; but the traces are passed away of the 



180 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

footsteps which made its pavement awful! It is be- 
come common and profane. The old benchers had 
it almost sacred to themselves, in the forepai?t of the 
day at least. They might not be sided or jostled. 
Their air and dress asserted the parade. You left 
wide spaces bewixt you, when you passed them. We 
walk on even terms with their successors. The 

roguish eye of J 11,^ ever ready to be delivered of 

a jest, almost invites a stranger to vie a repartee with 
it. But what insolent familiar durst have mated 
Thomas Coventry? — whose person was a quadrate, 
his step massy and elephantine, his face square as the 
lion's, his gait peremptory and path-keeping, in- 
divertible from his way as a moving column, the 
scarecrow of' his inferiors, the brow-beater of equals 
and superiors, who made a solitude of children wher- 
ever he came, for they fled- his insufferable presence, 
as they would have shunned an Elisha bear. His 
growl was as thunder in their ears, whether he spake 
to them in mirth or in rebuke, his invitatory notes 
being, indeed, of all, the most repulsive and horrid. 
Clouds of snuff, aggravating the natural terrors of 
his speech, broke from each majestic nostril, darkening 
the air. He took it, not by pinches, but a palmful at 
once, diving for it under the mighty flaps of his old- 
fashioned waistcoat pocket; his waistcoat red and 
angry, his coat dark rappee, tinctured by dye orig- 
inal, and by adjuncts, with buttons of obsolete gold. 
And so he paced the terrace. 

By his side a milder fonn was sometimes to be seen ; 



TEE OLD BENCHERS 181 

the pensive gentility of Samuel Salt.^ They were 
coevals, and had nothing but that and their bencher- 
ship in common. In politics Salt was a whig, and 
Coventry, a staunch tory. Many a sarcastic growl 
did the latter cast out — for Coventry had a rough 
spinous humor — at the political confederates of his 
associate, which rebounded from the gentle bosom of 
the latter like cannon-balls from wool. You could 
not ruffle Samuel Salt. 

S. had the reputation of being a very clever man, 
and of excellent discernment in the chamber practice 
of the law. I suspect his knowledge did not amount 
to much. When a case of difficult disposition of 
money, testamentary or otherwise, came before him, 
he ordinarily handed it over with a few instructions 
to his man Lovel,^ who was a quick little fellow, and 
would despatch it out of hand by the light of natural 
understanding of which he had an uncommon share. 
It was incredible what repute for talents S. enjoyed 
by the mere trick of gravity. He was a shy man; a 
child might pose him in a minute — indolent and pro- 
crastinating to the last degree. Yet men would give 
him credit for vast application in spite of himself. 
He was not to be trusted with himself with impunity. 
He never dressed for a dinner-party but he forgot 
his sword^they wore swords then — or some other 
necessary part of his equipage. Lovel had his eye 
upon him on all these occasions, and ordinarily gave 
him his cue. If there was anything which he could 
speak unseasonably, he was sure to do it. — He was to 



182 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

(line at a relative 's of the unfortunate Miss Blandy ^ 
on the day of her execution ; — and L. who had a wary 
foresight of his probable hallucinations, before he set 
out, schooled him with great anxiety not in any pos- 
sible manner to allude to her story that day. S. 
promised faithfully to observe the injunction. He 
had not been seated in the parlor, where the company 
was expecting the dinner summons, four minutes, 
when, a pause in the conversation ensuing, he got 
up, looked out of window, and pulling down his ruf- 
fles — an ordinary motion with him — observed, "it 
was a gloomy day," and added, ''Miss Blandy must 
be hanged by this time, I suppose. ' ' Instances of this 
sort were perpetual. Yet S. was thought by some of 
the greatest men of his time a fit person to be con- 
sulted, not alone in matters pertaining to the law, 
but in the ordinary niceties and embarrassments of 
conduct — from force of manner entirely. He never 
laughed. He had the same good fortune among the 
female world, — was a known toast with the ladies, and 
one or two are said to have died for love of him — I 
suppose, because he never trifled or talked gallantry 
with them, or paid them, indeed, hardly common at- 
tentions. He had a fine face and person, but wanted, 
methought, the spirit that should have shown them 
off with advantage to the women. His eye lacked 

luster. — Not so, thought Susan P ;- who,, at the 

advanced age of sixty, was seen in the cold evening 
time, unaccompanied, wetting the pavement of 
B d Row with tears that fell in drops which might 



THE OLD BENCHERS 183 

be heard, because her friend had died that day — he, 
whom she had pursued with a hopeless passion for the 
last forty years — a passion, which years could not ex- 
tinguish or abate ; nor the long resolved, yet gently 
enforced, puttings off of unrelenting bachelorhood 
dissuade from its cherished purpose. Mild Susan 

P , thou hast now thy friend in heaven. 

Thomas Coventry was a cadet of the noble family 
of that name. He passed his youth in contracted cir- 
cumstances, which gave him early those parsimonious 
habits which in after-life never forsook him; so that, 
with one windfall or another, about the time I knew 
him he was master of four or five hundred thousand 
pounds; nor did he look, or walk, worth a moidore 
less. He lived in a gloomy house opposite the pump 
in Serjeant's Inn, Fleet Street. J., the counsel, is 
doing self-imposed penance in it, for what reason I 
divine not at this day. C. had an agreeable seat at 
North Cray, where he seldom spend above a day or 
two at a time in the summer; but preferred, during 
the hot months, standing at his window in this damp, 
close, well-like mansion, to watch as he said, ''the 
maids drawing water all day long." I suspect he had 
his within-door reasons for the preference. Hie 
currus et arma fiiere} He might think his treasures 
more safe. His house had the aspect of a strong box. 
C. was a close hunks — a hoarder rather than a miser — 
or, if a miser, none of the mad Elwes breed, ^ who 
have brought discredit upon a character, which can- 
not exist without certain admirable points of steadi- 



184 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

ness and unity of purpose. One may hate a true 
miser, but cannot, I suspect, so easily despise him. 
By taking care of the pence, he is often enabled to 
part with the pounds, upon a scale that leaves us 
careless generous fellows halting at an immeasurable 
distance behind. C. gave away £30,000 at once in his 
life-time to a blind charity. His housekeeping was 
severely looked after, but he kept the table of a gen- 
tleman. He would know who came in and who went 
out of his house, but his kitchen chimney was never 
suffered to freeze. 

Salt was his opposite in this, as in all — never knew 
what he was worth in the world; and having but a 
competency for his rank, which his indolent habits 
were little calculated to improve, might have suf- 
fered severely if he had not had honest people about 
him. Lovel took care of everything. He was at 
once his clerk, his good servant, his dresser, his friend, 
his ''flapper," his guide, stop-watch, auditor, treas- 
urer. He did nothing without consulting Lovel, or 
failed in anything without expecting and fearing his 
admonishing. He put himself almost too much in his 
hands, had they not been the purest in the world. He 
resigned his title almost to respect as a master, if L. 
could ever have forgotten for a moment that he was 
a servant. 

I knew this Lovel. He was a man of an incor- 
rigible and losing honesty. A good fellow withal, 
and ''would strike." In the cause of the oppressed 
he never considered inequalities, or calculated the 



THE OLD BENCHERS 185 

number of his opponents. He once wrestled a sword 
out of the hand of a man of quality that had drawn 
upon him : and pommeled him severely with the hilt 
of it. The swordsman had offered insult to a female 
^an occasion upon which no odds against him could 
have prevented the interference of Lovel. He would 
stand next day bare-headed to the same person, mod- 
estly to excuse his interference— for L. never forgot 
rank, where something better was not concerned. L. 
was the liveliest little fellow breathing, had a face as 
gay as Garrick's,^ whom he was said greatly to re- 
semble (I have a portrait of him which confirms it), 
possessed a fine turn for humorous poetry — next to 
Swift and Prior ^—molded heads in clay or plaster of 
Paris to admiration, by the dint of natural genius 
merely; turned cribbage boards, and such small cabi- 
net toys, to perfection; took a hand at quadrille or 
bowls with equal facility; made punch better than 
any man of his degree in England; had the merriest 
quips and conceits, and was altogether as brimful of 
rogueries and inventions as you could desire. He 
was a brother of the angle, moreover, and just such a 
free, hearty, honest companion as Mr. Isaac Walton^ 
would have chosen to go fishing with. I saw him in 
his old age and the decay of his faculties, palsy- 
smitten, in the last sad stage of human weakness— 
' ' a remnant most forlorn of what he was, ' ' — yet even 
then his eye would light up upon the mention of his 
favorite Garrick. He was greatest, he would say, 
in Bayes*— "was upon the stage nearly throughout 



186 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

the whole performance, and as busy as a bee. ' ' At in- 
tervals, too, he would speak of his former life, and 
how he came up a little boy from Lincoln to go to 
service, and how his mother cried at parting with him, 
and how he returned, after some few years' absence, 
in his smart new livery to see her, and she blessed 
herself at the change, and could hardly be brought to 
believe that it was ''her own bairn." And then, the 
excitement subsiding, he would weep, till I have 
wished that sad second-childhood might have a mother 
still to lay its head upon her lap. But the common 
mother of us all in no long time after received him 
gently into hers. 

With Coventry, and with Salt, in their walks upon 
the terrace, most commonly Peter Pierson would join, 
to make up a third. They did not walk linked arm- 
in-arm in those days — "as now our stout triumvirs 
sweep the streets," — but generally with both hands 
folded behind them for state, or with one- at least be- 
hind, the other carrying a cane. P. was a benevolent, 
but not a prepossessing man. Pie had that in his face 
which you could not term unhappiness; it rather im- 
plied an incapacity of being happy. His cheeks were 
colorless, even to whiteness. His look was uninvit- 
ing, resembling (but without his sourness) that of 
our great philanthropist. I know that he did good 
acts, but I could never make out what he was. Con- 
temporary with these, but subordinate, was Daines 
Barrington — another oddity — he walked burly and 
square — in imitation, I think, of Coventry — howbeit 



THE OLD BENCHERS 187 

he attained not to the dignity of his prototype. Nev- 
ertheless, he did pretty well, upon the strength of be- 
ing a tolerable antiquarian, and having a brother a 
bishop. When the account of his year's treasurership 
came to be audited, the following singular charge was 
unanimously disallowed by the bench: "Item, dis- 
bursed Mr. Allen, the gardener, twenty shillings, for 
stuff to poison the sparrows, by my orders." Next 
to him was old Barton— a jolly negation, who took 
upon him the ordering of the bills of fare for the 
parliament chamber, where the benchers dine — 
answering to the combination rooms at college — ^much 
to the easement of his less epicurean brethren. I 
know nothing more of him. — Then Read, and Two- 
penny — Read, good-humored and personable — Two- 
penny, good-humored, but thin, and felicitous in jests 
upon his own figure. If T. was thin, Wharry was at- 
tenuated and fleeting. 'Many must remember him 
(for he was rather of later date) and his singular gait, 
which was performed by three steps and a jump 
regularly succeeding. The steps were little efforts, 
like that of a child beginning to walk ; the jump com- 
paratively vigorous, as a foot to an inch. Where he 
learned this figure, or what occasioned it, I could 
never discover. It was neither graceful in itself, 
nor seemed to answer the purpose any better than 
common walking. The extreme tenuity of his frame 
I suspect set him upon it. It was a trial of poising. 
Twopenny would often rally him upon his leanness, 
and hail him as Brother Lusty; but W. had no relish 



188 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

of a joke. His features were spiteful. I have heard 
that he would pinch his cat's ears extremely, when 
anything had offended him. Jackson — the omnis- 
cient Jackson he was called — was of this period. He 
had the reputation of possessing more multifarious 
knowledge than any man of his time. He was the 
Friar Bacon ^ of the less literate portion of the Tem- 
ple. I remember a pleasant passage, of the cook ap- 
plying to him, with much formality of apology, for 
instructions how to write down edge bone of beef in 
his bill of commons. He was supposed to know, if 
any man in the world did. He decided the orthog- 
raphy to be — as I have given it — fortifying his au- 
thority with such anatomical reasons as dismissed the 
manciple (for the time) learned and happy. Some 
do spell it yet perversely, aitch bone, from a fanciful 
resemblance between its shape, and that of the aspirate 
so denominated. I had almost forgotten Mingay with 
the iron hand — but he was somewhat later. He had 
lost his right hand by some accident, and supplied it 
with a grappling hook, which he wielded with a tol- 
erable adroitness. I detected the substitute, before I 
was old enough to reason whether it were artificial or 
not. I remember the astonishment it raised in me. 
He was a blustering, loud-talking person; and I rec- 
onciled the phenomenon to my ideas as an emblem 
of power — somewhat like the horns in the forehead 
of Michael Angelo's Moses.^ Baron Maseres, who 
walks (or did till very lately) in the costume of the 
reign of George the Second, closes my imperfect rec- 



TEE OLD BENCHERS 189 

ollections of the old benchers of the Inner Temple. 
Fantastic forms, whither are ye fled? Or, if the 
like of you exist, why exist they no more for me ? Ye 
inexplicable, half -understood appearances, why comes 
in reason to tear away the preternatural mist, bright 
or gloomy, that enshrouded you? Why make ye so 
sorry a figure in my relation, who made up to me — 
to my childish eyes— the mythology of the Temple? 
In those days I saw Gods, as "old men covered with 
a mantle," walking upon the earth. Let the dreams 
of classic idolatry perish,— extinct be the fairies and 
fairy trumpery of legendary fabling,— in the heart 
of childhood, there will, for ever, spring up a well of 
innocent or wholesome superstition — the seeds of ex- 
aggeration will be busy there, and vital— from every- 
day forms educing the unknown and the uncommon. 
In that little Goshen there will be light, when the 
grown world flounders about in the darkness of sense 
and materiality. While childhood, and while dreams, 
reducing childhood, shall be left, imagination shall 
not have spread her holy wings totally to fly the 
earth. 

P. S. I have done injustice to the soft shade of 
Samuel Salt. See what it is to trust to imperfect 
memory, and the erring notices of childhood! Yet 
I protest I always thought that he had been a bach- 
elor! This gentleman, R. N.^ informs me, married 
young, and losing his lady in child-bed, within the 
first year of their union, fell into a deep melancholy, 



190 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

from the effects of which, probably, he never thor- 
oughly recovered. In what a new light does this 
place his rejection (0 call it by a gentler name!) of 

mild Susan P , unraveling into beauty certain 

peculiarities of this very shy and retiring character ! 
— Henceforth let no one receive the narratives of Elia 
for true records! They are, in truth, but shadows 
of fact — verisimilitudes, not verities — or sitting but 
upon the remote edges and outskirts of history. He 
is no such honest chronicler as R. N., and would have 
done better perhaps to have consulted that gentleman, 
before he sent these incondite reminiscences to press. 
But the worthy sub-treasurer — who respects his old 
and his new masters — would but have been puzzled 
at the indecorous liberties of Elia. The good man 
wots not, peradventure, of the license which Maga- 
zines have arrived at in this plain-speaking age, or 
hardly dreams of their existence beyond the Gentle- 
man's — his furthest monthly excursions in this nature 
having been long confined to the holy ground of hon- 
est TJrltan's obituary.^ May it be long before his own 
name shall help to swell those columns of unenvied 
flattery ! — Meantime, ye New Benchers of the Inner 
Temple, cherish him kindly, for he is himself the 
kindliest of human creatures. Should infirmities 
over-take him — he is yet in green and vigorous senil- 
ity — ^make allowances for them, remembering that 
''ye yourselves are old." So may the Winged Horse, 
your ancient badge and cognizance, still flourish ! so 
may future Hookers and Seldons - illustrate your 



GRACE BEFORE MEAT 191 

church, and chambers! So may the sparrows, in de- 
fault of more melodious choristers, unpoisoned hop 
about your walks ! so may the fresh-colored 'and 
cleanly nursery maid, who by leave, airs her playful 
charge in your stately gardens, drop her prettiest 
blushing curtsy as ye pass, reductive of juvenescent 
emotion ! so may the younkers of this generation eye 
you, pacing your stately terrace, with the same su- 
perstitious veneration, with which the child Elia 
gazed on the Old Worthies that solemnized the parade 
before ye ! 

GRACE BEFORE MEAT 

The custom of saying grace at meals had, probably, 
its origin in the early times of the world, and the 
hunter-state of man, when dinners were precarious 
things, and a full meal was something more than a 
common blessing; when a belly-full was a windfall, 
and looked like a special providence. In the shouts 
and triumphal songs with which, after a season of 
sharp abstinence, a lucky booty of deer's or goat's 
flesh would naturally be ushered home, existed, per- 
haps, the germ of the modern grace. It is not other- 
wise easy to be understood, why the blessing of food — 
the act of eating — should have had a particular ex- 
pression of thanksgiving annexed to it, distinct from 
that implied and silent gratitude with which we are 
expected to enter upon the enjoyment of the many 
other various gifts and good things of existence. 



192 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

I own that I am disposed to say grace upon twenty 
other occasions in the course of the day besides my 
dinner. I want a form for setting out upon a pleas- 
ant walk, for a moonlight ramble, for a friendly 
meeting, or a solved problem. Why have we none 
for books, those spiritual repasts — a grace before 
Milton — a grace before Shakespeare — a devotional 
exercise proper to be said before reading the Fairy 
Queen ? ^ — but, the received ritual having prescribed 
these forms to the solitary ceremony of manducation, 
I shall confine my observations to the experience 
which I have had of the grace, properly so called; 
commending my new scheme for extension to a niche 
in the grand philosophical, poetical, and perchance 
in part heretical, liturgy, now compiling by my 
friend Homo Humanus, for the use of a certain snug 
congregation of Utopian Rabelgesian ^ Christians, no 
matter where assembled. 

The form then of the benediction before eating 
has its beauty at a poor man's table, or at the simple 
and unprovocative repasts of children. It is here 
that the grace becomes exceedingly graceful. The in- 
digent man, who hardly knows whether he shall have 
a meal the next day or not, sits down to his fare with 
a present sense of the blessing which can be but 
feebly acted by the rich, into whose minds the con- 
ception of wanting a dinner could never, but by some 
extreme theory, have entered. The proper end of 
food — the animal sustenance — is barely contemplated 
by them. The poor man's bread is his daily bread. 



GRACE BEFORE MEAT 193 

literally his bread for the day. Their courses are 
perennial. 

Again, the plainest diet seems the fittest to be pre- 
ceded by the grace. That which is least stimulative 
to appetite, leaves the mind most free for foreign 
considerations. A man may feel thankful, heartily 
thankful, over a dish of plain mutton with turnips, 
and have leisure to reflect upon the ordinance and 
institution of eating; when he shall confess a 
perturbation of mind, inconsistent with the purposes 
of the grace, at the presence of venison or turtle. 
When I have sat (a rarus hospes) ^ at rich men's ta- 
bles, with the savory soup and messes steaming up 
the nostrils, and moistening the lips of the guests 
with desire and a distracted choice, I have felt the 
introduction of that ceremony to be unseasonable. 
With the ravenous orgasm upon you, it seems im- 
pertinent to interpose a religious sentiment. It is a 
confusion of purpose to mutter out praises from a 
mouth that waters. The heats of epicurism put out 
the gentle frame of devotion. The incense which 
rises round is pagan, and the belly-god intercepts it 
for his own. The very excess of the provision be- 
yond the needs, takes away all sense of proportion 
between the end and means. The giver is veiled by 
his gifts. You are startled at the injustice of re- 
turning thanks — for what? — for having too much, 
while so many starve. It is to praise the Gods amiss. 

I have observed this awkwardness felt, scarce con- 
sciously perhaps, by the good man who says the 



194 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

grace. I have seen it in clergymen and others — a 
sort of shame — a sense of the co-presence of circum- 
stances which nnhallow the blessing. After. a devo- 
tional tone put on for a few seconds, how rapidly 
the speaker will fall into his common voice, helping 
himself or his. neighbor, as if to get rid of some un- 
easy sensation of hypocrisy. Not that the good man 
was a hypocrite, or was not most conscientious in 
the discharge of the duty; but he felt in his inmost 
mind the incompatibility of the scene and the viands 
before him with the exercise of a calm and rational 
gratitude. 

I hear somebody exclaim, — ^Would you have Chris- 
tians sit down at table, like hogs to their troughs, 
without remembering the Giver ? — no — I would have 
them sit down as Christians, remembering the Giver, 
and less like hogs. Or if their appetites must run 
riot, and they must pamper themselves with delica- 
cies for which east and west are ransacked, I would 
have them postpone their benediction to a fitter sea- 
son, when appetite is laid; when the still small voice 
can be heard, and the reason of the grace returns — ■ 
with temperate diet and restricted dishes. Gluttony 
and surfeiting are no proper occasions for thanks- 
giving. "When Jeshurun waxed fat,^ we read that he 
kicked. Virgil knew the harpy-nature better, when 
he put into the mouth of Celano ^ any thing but a 
blessing. We may be gratefully sensible of the de- 
liciousness of some kinds of food beyond others, 
though that is a meaner and inferior gratitude: but 



GRACE BEFORE MEAT 195 

the proper object of the grace is sustenance, not rel- 
ishes; daily bread, not delicacies; the means of life, 
and not the means of pampering the carcass. With 
what frame or composure, I wonder, can a city chap- 
lain pronounce his benediction at some great Hall 
feast, when he knows that his last concluding pious 
word — and that, in all probability, the sacred name 
which he preaches — is but the signal for so many 
impatient harpies to commence their foul orgies, with 
as little sense of true thankfulness (which is tem- 
perance) as those Virgilian fov/1! It is well if the 
good man himself does not feel his devotions a little 
clouded, those foggy sensuous steams mingling with 
and polluting the pure altar sacrifice. 

The severest satire upon full tables and surfeits 
is the banquet which Satan, in the ''Paradise Re- 
gained, ' ' provides for a temptation in the wilderness : 

A table richly spread in regal mode, 
With dishes piled, and meats of noblest sort 
And savor; beasts of chase, or fowl of game. 
In pastry built, or from the spit, or boiled, 
Gris-amber-steamed ; all fish from sea or shore. 
Freshet or purling brook, for which was drained 
Pontus, and Lucrine bay, and Afric coast.i 

The Tempter, I warrant you, thought these cates 
would go down without the recommendatory preface 
of a benediction. They are like to be short graces 
where the devil plays the host. — I am afraid the poet 
wants his usual decorum in this place. Was he think- 
ing of the old Eoman luxury, or of a gaudy day at 



196 THE ESSAYS. OF ELI A 

Cambridge? This was a temptation fitter for a 
Heliogabalus.^ The whole banquet is too civic and 
culinary, and the accompaniments altogether a prof- 
anation of that deep, abstracted, holy scene. The 
mighty artillery of sauces, which the cook-fiend con- 
jures up, is out of proportion to the simple wants 
and plain hunger of the guest. He that disturbed 
him in his dreams, from his dreams might have been 
taught better. To the temperate fantasies of the 
famished Son of God, what sort of feasts presented 
themselves? — He dreamed indeed, 

As appetite is wont to dream. 



Of meats and drinks, nature's refreshment sweet. 

But what meats? — 

Him thought, he by the brook of Cherith stood. 

And saw the ravens with their horny beaks 

Food to Elijah bringing, even and morn 

Though ravenous, taught to abstain from what they 

brought ; 
He saw the prophet also how he fled 
Into the desert, and how there he slept 
Under a juniper; then how awaked 
He found his supper on the coals prepared, 
And by the angel was bid rise and eat. 
And ate the second time after repose, 
The strength whereof sufficed him forty days: 
Sometimes, that with Elijah he partook. 
Or as a guest with Daniel at his pulse.2 

Nothing in Milton is finelier fancied than these tem- 
perate dreams of the divine Hungerer. To which of 



GRACE BEFORE MEAT 197 

these two visonary banquets, think you, would the 
introduction of what is called the grace have been 
most fitting and pertinent? 

Theoretically I am no enemy to graces; but prac- 
tically I own that (before meat especially) they seem 
to involve something awkward and unseasonable. 
Our appetites, of one or another kind, are excellent 
spurs to our reason, which might otherwise but feebly 
set about the great ends of preserving and continu- 
ing the species. They are fit blessings* to be contem- 
plated at a distance with a becoming gratitude : but 
the moment of appetite (the judicious reader will 
apprehend me) is, perhaps, the least fit season for 
that exercise. The Quakers who go about their busi- 
ness, of every description, with more calmness than 
we, have more title to the use of these benedictory 
prefaces. I have always admired their silent grace, 
and the more because I have observed their applica- 
tions to the meat and drink following to be less pas- 
sionate and sensual than ours. They are neither glut- 
tons nor wine-bibbers as a people. They eat, as a 
horse bolts his chopped hay, with indifference, calm- 
ness, and cleanly circumstances. They neither grease 
nor slop themselves. When I see a citizen in his bib 
and tucker, I cannot imagine it a surplice. 

I am no Quaker at my food. I confess I am not 
indifferent to the kinds of it. Those unctuous mor- 
sels of deer's flesh were not made to be received 
with dispassionate services. . I hate a man who swal- 
lows it, affecting not to know what he is eating. 



198 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

I suspect his taste in higher matters. I shrink in- 
stinctively from one who professes to like minced 
veal. There is a physiognonvical character in the 

tastes for food. C ^ holds that a man cannot 

have a pure mind who refuses apple-dumplings. 1 
am not certain but he is right. With the decay of 
my first innocence, I confess a less and less relish 
daily for these innocuous cates. The whole vegeta- 
ble tribe have lost their gust with me. Only I 
stick to asparagus, which still seems to inspire gen- 
tle thoughts. I am impatient and querulous under 
culinary disappointments, as to come home at the 
dinner hour, for instance, expecting some savory 
mess, and to find one quite tasteless and sapidless. 
Butter ill melted — that commonest of kitchen fail- 
ures — puts me beside my tenor. — The author of 
the ' ' Rambler ' ' - used to make inarticulate animal 
noises over a favorite food. Was this the music 
quite proper to be preceded by the grace? or would 
the pious man have done better to postpone his de- 
votions to a season when the blessing might be con- 
templated with less perturbation? I quarrel with no 
man 's tastes, nor would set my thin face against those 
excellent things, in their way, jollity and feasting. 
But as these exercises, however laudable, have little 
in them of grace or gracefulness, a man should be 
sure, before he ventures so to grace them, that while 
he is pretending his devotions otherwise, he is not 
secretly kissing his hand to some great fish — his 
Dagon ^ — with a special consecration of no ark but the 



GRACE BEFORE MEAT 199 

fat tureen before him. Graces are the sweet pre- 
luding strains to the banquets of angels and children : 
to the roots and severer repasts of the Chartreuse ; ^ 
to the slender, but not slenderly acknowledged, re- 
fection of the poor and humble man : but at the 
heaped-up boards of the pampered and the luxurious 
they become of dissonant mood, less timid and tuned 
to the occasion, methinks, than the noise of those bet- 
ter befitting organs would be, which children hear 
tales of, at Hog's Norton. We sit too long at our 
meals, or are too curious in the study of them, or 
too disordered in our application to them, or engross 
too great a portion of these good things (which 
should be common) to our share, to be able with any 
grace to say grace. To be thankful for what we 
grasp exceeding our proportion is to add hypocrisy 
to injustice. A lurking sense of this truth is what 
makes the performance of this duty so cold and spirit- 
less a service at most tables. In houses where the 
grace is as indispensable as the napkin, who has not 
seen that never settled question arise, as to who shall 
say it; while the good man of the house and the vis- 
itor clergyman, or some other guest belike of next 
authority from years or gravity, shall be bandying 
about the office between them as a matter of compli- 
ment, each of them not unwilling to shift the awk- 
ward burden of an equivocal duty from his own shoul- 
ders ? 

I once drank tea in company with two Methodist 
divines of different persuasions, whom it was my 



200 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

fortune to introduce to each other for the first time 
that evening. Before the first cup was handed round, 
one of these reverend gentlemen put it to the other, 
with all due solemnity, whether he chose to say any 
thing. It seems it is the custom with some sectaries 
to put up a short prayer before this meal also. His 
reverend brother did not at first quite apprehend 
him, but upon an explanation, with little less im- 
portance he made answer, that it was not a custom 
known in his church: in which courteous evasion the 
other acquiescing for good manner's sake, or in com- 
pliance with a weak brother, the supplementary or 
tea-grace was waived altogether. With what spirit 
might not Lucian ^ have painted two priests, of his 
religion, playing into each other's hands the com- 
pliment of performing or omitting a sacrifice, — the 
hungry God meantime, doubtful of his incense, with 
expectant nostrils hovering over the two flamens, and 
(as between two stools) going away in the end with- 
out his supper. 

A short form upon these occasions is felt to want 
reverence ; a long one, I am afraid, cannot escape the 
charge of impertinence. I do not quite approve of 
the epigrammatic conciseness with which that equivo- 
cal wag (but my pleasant school-fellow) C. V. L.,^ 
when importuned for a grace, used to inquire first 
slyly leering down the table, "Is there no clergyman 
here?" significantly adding, "thank G — ." Nor do 
I think our old form at school quite pertinent, where 
we were used to preface our bald bread and cheese 



MY FIRST PLAY 201 

suppers with a preamble, connecting with that hum- 
ble blessing a recognition of benefits the most awful 
and overwhelming to the imagination which religion 
has to offer. Non tunc ilUs erat locus} I remember 
we were put to it to reconcile the phrase "good crea- 
tures," upon which the blessing rested, with the fare 
set before us, wilfully understanding that expression 
in a low and animal sense, — till some one recalled a 
legend, which told how in the golden days of Christ's, 
the young Hospitallers were wont to have smoking 
joints of roast meat upon their nightly boards, till 
some pious benefactor, commiserating the decencies, 
rather than the palates, of the children, commuted 
our flesh for garments, and gave us — Jiorresco ref ev- 
ens ^ — trousers instead of mutton. 

MY FIRST PLAY 

At the north end of Cross Court there yet stands a 
portal, of some architectural pretensions, though re- 
duced to humble use, serving at present for an en- 
trance to a printing-office. This old door-way, if you 
are young, reader, you may not know was the iden- 
tical pit entrance to Old Drury — Garrick's Drury * — 
all of it that is left. I never pass it without shak- 
ing some forty years from off my shoulders, recur- 
ring to the evening when I passed through it to see 
my first play. The afternoon had been wet, and the 
condition of our going (the elder folks and myself) 
was, that the rain should cease. With what a beating 



202 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

heart did I watch from the window the puddles, from 
the stillness of which I was taught to prognosticate 
the desired cessation ! I seem to remember the last 
spurt, and the glee with which I ran to announce it. 
We went with orders, which my godfather F.^ had 
sent us. He kept the oil shop (now Davies's) at the 
corner of Featherstone Building, in Holborn. F, 
was a tall grave person, lofty in speech, and had 
pretensions above his rank. He associated in those 
days with John Palmer, the comedian, whose gait and 
bearing he seemed to copy; if John (which is quite as 
likely) did not rather borrow somewhat of his manner 
from my godfather. He was also known to, and 
visited by Sheridan.^ It was to his house in Holborn 
that young Brinsley brought his first wife on her 
elopement with him from a boarding-school at Bath — 
the beautiful Maria Linley. My parents were pres- 
ent (over a quadrille table) when he arrived in the 
evening with his harmonious charge. — From either 
of these connections it may be inferred that my god- 
father could command an order for the then Drury 
Lane theater at pleasure — and, indeed, a pretty lib- 
eral issue of those cheap billets, in Brinsley 's easy 
autograph, I have heard him say was the sole re- 
muneration which he had received for many years' 
nightly illumination of the orchestra and various 
avenues of that theater — and he was content it should 
be so. The honor of Sheridan's familiarity — or sup- 
posed familiarity — was better to my godfather than 
money. 



MY FIRST PLAY 203 

F. was the most gentlemanly of oilmen; grandilo- 
quent yet courteous. His delivery of the commonest 
matters of fact was Ciceronian/ He had two Latin 
words almost constantly in his mouth (how odd 
sounds Latin from an oilman's lips!), which my bet- 
'ter knowledge since has e^iabled me to correct. In 
strict pronunciation they should have sounded vice 
versa — but in those young years they impressed me 
with more awe than they would now do, read aright 
from Seneca or Varro ^ — in his own peculiar pronun- 
ciation monosyllabically elaborated, or Anglicized, 
into something like verse verse. By an imposing 
manner, and the help of those distorted syllables, he 
climbed (but that was little) to the highest parochial 
honors which St. Andrew 's ^ has to bestow. 

He is dead — and thus much I thought due to his 
memory, both for my first orders (little wondrous tal- 
ismans! — slight keys, and insignificant to outward 
sight, but opening to me more than Arabian para- 
dises!) and moreover, that by his testamentary be- 
neficence I came into possession of the only landed 
property which I could ever call my own — situate 
near the road-way village of pleasant Puckeridge, in 
Hertfordshire. When I journeyed down to take pos- 
session, and planted foot on my own ground, the 
stately habits of the donor descended upon me, and 
I strode (shall I confess the vanity?) with larger 
paces over my allotment of three-quarters of an acre, 
with its commodious mansion in the midst, with the 
feeling of an English freeholder that all betwixt sky 



204 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

and center was my own. The estate has passed into 
more prndent hands, and nothing but an agrarian 
can' restore it. 

In those days were pit orders. Beshrew the uncom- 
fortable manager who abolished them! — with one of 
these we went, I rememljer the waiting at the door* 
— not that which is left — but between that and an 
inner door in shelter — when shall I be such an ex- 
pectant again ! — with the cry of nonpareils, an indis- 
pensable play-house accompaniment in those days. 
As near as I can recollect, the fashionable pronuncia- 
tion of the theatrical fruiteresses then was, "Chase 
some oranges, chase some numparels, chase a bill of 
the play;" — chase pro chuse. But when we got in, 
and I beheld the green curtain that veiled a heaven 
to my imagination, which was soon to be disclosed 

the breathless anticipations I endured ! I had 

seen something like it in the plate prefixed to 
Troilus and Cressida,^ in Rowe's Shakespeare — the 
tent scene with Diomede ^ — and a sight of that plate 
can always bring back in a measure the feeling of 
that evening. — The boxes at that time, full of well- 
dressed women of quality, projected over the pit; and 
the pilasters reaching down were adorned with a 
glistering substance (I know not what) under glass 
(as it seemed), resembling — a homely fancy — but I 
judged it to be sugar-candy — yet, to my raised im- 
agination, divested of its homelier qualities, it ap- 
peared a glorified candy! — The orchestra lights at 
length arose, those "fair Auroras!"^ Once the bell 



MY FIRST PLAY 205 

sounded. It was to ring out yet once again — and, 
incapable of the anticipation, I reposed my shut eyes 
in a sort of resignation upon the maternal lap. It 
rang the second time. The curtain drew up — I was 
not past six years old — and the play was Artaxerxes !^ 

I had dabbled a little in the Universal History — 
the ancient part of it — and here was the court of 
Persia. It was being admitted to a sight of the past. 
I took no proper interest in the action going on, for 
I understood not its import — but I heard the word 
Darius,^ and I was in the midst of Daniel. All feel- 
ing was absorbed in vision. Gorgeous vests, gardens, 
palaces, princesses, passed before me. I knew not 
players. I was in Persepolis ^ for the time ; and the 
burning idol of their devotion almost converted me 
into a worshipper. I was awe-struck, and believed 
those significations to be something more than ele- 
mental fires. It was all enchantment and a dream. 
No such pleasure has since visited me but in dreams. 
— Harlequin's Invasion followed; where, I remember, 
the transformation of the magistrates into reverend 
beldams seemed to me a piece of grave historic jus- 
tice, and the tailor carrying his own head to be as 
sober a verity as the legend of St. Denys.* 

The next play to which I was taken was the Lady 
of the Manor, of which, with the exception of. some 
scenery, very faint traces are left in my memory. 
It was followed by a pantomime, called Lun's Ghost 
— a satiric touch, I apprehend, upon Rich,^ not long 
since dead — but to my apprehension (too sincere for 



206 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

satire), Lun was as remote a piece of antiquity as 
Lud ^ — the father of a line of Harlequins — transmit- 
ting his dagger of lath (the wooden scepter) through 
countless ages. I saw the primeval Motley ^ come 
from his silent tomb in a ghastly vest of white patch- 
work, like the apparition of a dead rainbow. So 
Harlequins (thought I) look when they are dead. 

My third play followed in quick succession. It 
was the "Way of the World.^ I think I must have 
sat at it as grave as a judge; for, I remember, the 
hysteric affectations of good Lady Wishfort affected 
me like some solemn tragic passion. Robinson 
Crusoe followed; in which Crusoe, man Friday, and 
the parrot, tvere as good and authentic as in the 
story. — The clownery and pantaloonery of these 
pantomimes have clean passed out of my head. I 
believe, I no more laughed at them, than at the same 
age I should have been disposed to laugh at the gro- 
tesque Gothic heads (seeming to me then replete with 
devout meaning) that gape, and grin, in stone around 
the inside of the old Round Church (my church) of 
the Templars. 

I saAV these plays in the season 1781-2, when I 
was from six to seven years old. After the interven- 
tion of six or seven other years (for at school all 
play-going was inhibited) I again entered the doors 
of a theater. That old Artaxerxes evening had never 
done ringing in my fancy. I expected the same feel- 
ings to come again with the same occasion. But we 
differ from ourselves less at sixty and sixteen, than 



MY FIRST PLAY 207 

the latter does from six. In that interval what had 
I not lost ! At the first period I knew nothing, un- 
derstood nothing, discriminated nothing. I felt all, 
loved all, wondered all — 

Was nourished, I could not tell how — 

I had left the temple a devotee, and was returned a 
rationalist. The same things were there materially; 
but the emblem, the reference, was gone ! — The green 
curtain was no longer a veil, drawn between two 
worlds, the unfolding of which was to bring back past 
ages, to present ' ' a royal ghost, ' ' — but a certain quan- 
tity of green baize, which was to separate the audi- 
ence for a given time from certain of their fellow- 
men who were to come forward and pretend those 
parts. The lights — the orchestra lights — came up a 
clumsy machinery. The first ring, and the second 
ring, was now but a trick of the prompter's bell — 
which had been, like the note of the cuckoo, a phantom 
of a voice, no hand seen or guessed at which minis- 
tered to its warning. The actors were men and wo- 
men painted. I thought the fault was in them ; but it 
was in myself, and the alteration which those many 
centuries — of six short twelvemonths — had wrought in 
me. — Perhaps it was fortunate for me that the play 
of the evening was but an indifferent comedy, as it 
gave me time to crop some unreasonable expectations, 
which might have interfered with the genuine emo- 
tions with which I was soon after enabled to enter 
upon the first appearance to me of Mrs. Siddons ^ in 



208 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Isabella. Comparison and retrospection soon yielded 
to the present attraction of the scene; and the the- 
ater became to me, upon a new stock, the most delight- 
ful of recreations. 



DREAM-CHILDREN; A REVERIE 

Children love to listen to stories about their elders, 
when they were children ; to stretch their imagination 
to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle or 
grandame, whom they never saw. It was in this 
spirit that my little ones crept about me the other 
evening to hear about their great grand-mother Field, 
who lived in a great house in Norfolk^ (a hundred 
times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) 
which had been the scene — so at least it was generally 
believed in that part of the country — of the tragic 
incidents which they had lately become familiar with 
from the ballad of the Children in the Wood.^ Cer- 
tain it is that the whole story of the children and 
their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in 
wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall, the 
whole story doAvn to the Robin Redbreast, till a fool- 
ish rich person pulled it down to set up a marble one 
of modern invention in its stead, w^ith no story upon 
it. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's 
looks, too tender to be called upbraiding. Then I 
went on to say, how religious and how good their 
great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and re- 
spected by every body, though she was not indeed 



DBEAM-CHILDBEN; A REVERIE 209 

the mistress of this great house, but had only the 
charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be 
said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her by 
the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more 
fashionable mansion which he had purchased some- 
where in the adjoining county ; but still she lived in it 
in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up 
the dignity of the great house in a sort while she 
lived, which afterwards came to decay, and was nearly 
pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and 
carried away to the owner's other house, where they 
were set up, and looked as awkward as if some one 
were to carry away the old tombs they had seen lately 
at the Abbey, and stick them up in Lady C. 's tawdry 
gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to 
say, ^'that would be foolish indeed." And then I told 
how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended 
by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gen- 
try too, of the neighborhood for many miles round, to 
show their respect for her memory, because she had 
been such a good and religious woman; so good in- 
deed that she knew all the Psaltery by heart, ay, and 
a great part of the Testament besides. Here little 
Alice spread her hands. Then I told what a tall, up- 
right graceful person their great-grandmother Field 
once was ; and how in her youth she was esteemed the 
best dancer — ^here Alice's little right foot played 
an involuntary movement, till upon my looking grave, 
it desisted — ^the best dancer, I was saying, in the 
county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and 



210 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

bowed her down with pain; but it could never bend 
her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were 
still upright, because she was so good and religious. 
Then I told how she was used to sleep by herself in a 
lone chamber of the great lone house ; and how she 
believed that an apparition of two infants was to be 
seen at midnight gliding up and down the great 
staircase near where she slept, but she said "those 
innocents would do her no harm ; ' ' and how fright- 
ened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid 
to sleep with me, because I was never half so good 
or religious as she — and yet I never saw the infants. 
Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to 
look courageous. Then I told how good she was to 
all her grand-children, having us to the great house 
in the holy days, where I in particular used to spend 
many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts 
of the Twelve Cassars,^ that had been Emperors of 
Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live 
again, or I to be turned into marble with them; how 
I never could be tired with roaming about that huge 
mansion with its vast empty rooms, with their worn- 
out hangings, fluttering tapestry, . and carved oaken 
panels, with the gilding almost rubbed out — some- 
times in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, which I 
had almost to myself, unless when now and then a 
solitary gardening man would cross me — and how the 
nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls, without 
my ever offering to pluck them, because they were 
forbidden fruit, unless now and then, — and because 



DREAM-CHILDREN; A REVERIE 211 

I had more pleasure in strolling about among the old 
melancholy-looking yew trees, or the firs, and picking 
up the red berries, and the fir apples, which were 
good for nothing but to look at — or in lying about 
upon the fresh grass, with all the fine garden smells 
around me — or basking in the orangery, till I could 
almost fancy myself ripening too along with the or- 
anges and the limes in that grateful warmth — or in 
watching the dace that darted to and fro in the fish- 
pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here and 
there a great sulky pike hanging midway down the 
water in silent state, as if it mocked at their imper- 
tinent friskings, — I had more pleasure in these busy- 
idle diversions than in all the sweet flavors of peaches, 
nectarines, oranges, and such like common baits of 
children. Here- John slyly deposited back upon the 
plate a bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by 
Alice, he had meditated dividing with her, and both 
seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as 
irrelevant. Then in somewhat a more heightened 
tone, I told how, though their great-grandmothei? 
Field loved all her grand-children, yet in an especial 
manner she might be said to love their uncle, John 

L , because he was so handsome and spirited a 

youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of 
moping about in solitary corners, like some of us, 
he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could 
get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and 
make it carry him half over the county in a morn- 
ing, and join the hunters when there were any out — 



212 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, 
but had too much spirit to be always pent up within 
their boundaries — and how their uncle grew up to 
man's estate as brave as he was handsome, to the 
admiration of everybody, but of their great-grand- 
mother Field most especially ; and how he used to 
carry me upon his back when I was a lame-footed 
boy — for he was a good bit older than me — many a 
mile when I could not walk for pain; and how in 
after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not 
always (I fear) make allowances enough for him 
when he was impatient, and in pain, nor remember 
sufficiently how considerate he had been to me when 
I was lame-footed ; and how when he died, though he 
had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had 
died a great while ago, such a distance there is be- 
twixt life and death; and how I bore his death as I 
thought pretty well at first, but afterward it haunted 
and haunted me ; and though I did not cry or take it 
to heart as some do, and as I think he would have 
done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, and 
knew not till then how much I had loved him. I 
missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, 
and wished him to be alive again, to be quarrel- 
ing with him (for we quarreled sometimes), rather 
than not have him again, and was as uneasy 
without him as he, their poor uncle, must have 
been when the doctor took off his limb. Here the 
children fell a crying, and asked if their little mourn- 
ing which they had on was not for uncle John, and 



DREAM-CHILDREN; A REVERIE . 213 

they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about 
their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their 
pretty dead mother. Then I told how for seven long 
years in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet 

persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W n ; ^ 

and, as much as children could understand, I ex- 
plained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and de- 
nial meant in maidens — when suddenly, turning to 
Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes 
with such a reality of re-presentment, that I became 
in doubt which of them stood there before me, or 
whose that bright hair was ; and while I stood gazing, 
both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, 
receding, and still receding till nothing at last but two 
mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, 
which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me 
the effects of speech; "We are not of Alice, nor of 
thee, nor are we children at all. The children of 
Alice call Bartrum father. We are nothing; less 
than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might 
have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of 
Lethe ^ millions of ages before we have existence, and 
a name" — and immediately awaking, I found myself 
quietly seated in my bachelor armchair, where I had 
fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged 
by my side — but John L. (or James Elia) was gone 
for ever. 



214 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 



DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS 

In a Letter to B. F.^ Esq. at Sydney, New South 

Wales 

My dear F.— ^When I think how welcome the sight of 
a letter from the world where you were born must 
be to you in that strange one to which you have been 
transplanted, I feel some compunctious visitings at 
my long silence. But, indeed, it is no easy effort to 
set about a correspondence at our distance. The 
weary world of waters between us oppresses the im- 
agination. It is difficult to conceive how a scrawl of 
mine should ever stretch across it. It is a sort of 
presumption to expect that one's thoughts should live 
so far. It is like writing for posterity; and reminds 
me of one of Mrs. Rowe 's ^ superscriptions, ' ' Alcander 
to Strephon,* in the shades." Cowley's Post- Angel 
is no more than would be expedient in such an in- 
tercourse. One drops a packet at Lombard Street, 
and in twenty-four hours a friend in Cumberland 
gets it as fresh as if it came in ice. It is only like 
whispering through a long trumpet. But suppose a 
tube let down from the moon, with yourself at one 
end, and the man at the other ; it would be some 
balk to the spirit of conversation, if you knew that 
the dialogue exchanged with that interesting theoso- 
phist would take two or three revolutions of a higher 
luminary in its passage. Yet for aught I know, you 
may be some parasangs nigher that primitive idea — 



DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS 215 

Plato's man — than we in England here have the 
honor to reckon ourselves. 

Epistolary matter usually compriseth three topics; 
news, sentiment, and puns. In the latter, I include 
all non-serious subjects; or subjects serious in them- 
selves, but treated after my fashion, non-seriously. 
— And first, for news. In them the most desirable 
circumstance, I suppose, is that they shall be true. 
But what security can I have that what I now send 
you for truth shall not before you get it unaccount- 
ably turn into a lie? For instance, our mutual 
friend P. is at this present writing — my Now — in 
good health, and enjoys a fair share of worldly repu- 
tation. You are glad to hear it. This is natural and 
friendly. But at this present reading — your Now — 
he may possibly be in the Bench, or going to be 
hanged, which in reason ought to abate something of 
your transport {i. e. at hearing he was well, etc.), or 
at least considerably to modify it. I am going to the 
play this evening, to have a laugh with Munden.^ — 
You have no theater, I think you told me, in your 

land of d d realities. You naturally lick your 

lips, and envy me my felicity. Think but a moment, 
and you will correct the hateful emotion. Why, it is 
Sunday morning with you, and 1823. This confu- 
sion of tenses, this grand solecism of two presents, is 
in a degree common to all postage. But if I sent 
you word to Bath or the Devises, that I was expecting 
the aforesaid treat this evening, though at the mo- 
ment you received the intelligence my full feast of 



216 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

fun would be over, yet there would be for a day or 
two after, as you would well know, a smack, a relish 
left upon my mental palate, which would give ra- 
tional encouragement for you to foster a portion at 
least of the disagreeable passion, which it was in part 
my intention to produce. But ten months hence your 
envy or your sympathy would be as useless as a 
passion spent upon the dead. Not only does truth, 
in these long intervals, unessence herself, but (what 
is harder) one cannot venture a crude fiction for the 
fear that it may ripen into a truth upon the voyage. 
What a wild improbable banter I put upon you 

some three years since of Will Weatherall having 

married a servant-maid! I remember gravely con- 
sulting you how we were to receive her — for Will's 
wife was in no case to be rejected; and your no less 
serious replication in the matter; how tenderly you 
advised an abstemious introduction of literary topics 
before the lady, with a caution not to be too forward 
in bringing on the carpet, matters more within the 
sphere of her intelligence ; your deliberate judgment, 
or rather wise suspension of sentence, how far jacks, 
and spits, and mops, could with propriety be intro- 
duced as subjects; whether the conscious avoiding 
of all such matters in discourse would not have a 
worse look than the taking of them casually in our 
way; in what manner we should carry ourselves to 
our maid Becky, Mrs. William Weatherall being by; 
whether we show more delicacy, and a truer sense 
of respect for Will's wife, by treating Becky with 



DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS 217 

our customary chiding before her, or by an unusual 
deferential civility paid to Becky as to a person of 
great worth, but thrown by the caprice of fate into a 
humble station. There were difficulties, I remember, 
on both sides, which you did me the favor to state 
with the precision of a lawyer, united to the tender- 
ness of a friend. I laughed in my sleeve at your 
solemn pleadings, when lo ! while I was valuing my- 
self upon this flam put upon you in New South 
Wales, the devil in England, jealous possibly of any 
lie-children not his o^^ti, or working after my copy, 
has actually instigated our friend (not three days 
since) to the commission of a matrimony which I 
had only conjured up for your diversion. William 
Weatherall has married Mrs. Cotterel's maid. But 
to take it in its truest sense, you will see, my dear 
F., that news from me must become history to you ; 
which I neither profess to write, nor indeed care much 
for reading. No person, under a diviner, can with 
any prospect of veracity conduct a correspondence 
at such arm's length. Two prophets, indeed, might 
thus interchange intelligence with effect ; the epoch of 
the writer (Habakkuk falling in with the true pres- 
ent time of the receiver (Daniel); but then we are 
no prophets. 

Then as to sentiment. It fares little better with 
that. ' This kind of dish, above all, requires to be 
served up hot ; or sent off in water-plates, that your 
friend may have it almost as warm as yourself. If 
it have time to cool, it is the most tasteless of all 



218 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

cold meats. I have often smiled at a conceit of the 
late Lord C.^ It seems that traveling somewhere 
about Geneva, he came to some pretty green spot, or 
nook, where a willow, or something, hung so fantasti- 
cally and invitingly over a stream — was it? — or a 
rock? — no matter — but the stillness and the repose, 
after a weary journey 'tis likely, in a languid moment 
of his lordship's hot restless life, so took his fancy, 
that he could imagine no place so proper, in the 
event of his death, to lay his bones in. This was all 
very natural and excusable as a sentiment, and shows 
his character in a very pleasing light. But when 
from a passing sentiment it came to be an act; and 
when by a positive testamentary disposal, his re- 
mains were actually carried all that way from Eng- 
land ; who was there, some desperate sentimentalists 
excepted, that did not ask the question, Why could 
not his lordship have found a spot as solitary, a 
nook as romantic, a tree as green and pendent, with 
a stream as emblematic to his purpose, in Surrey, in 
Dorset, or in Devon? Conceive the sentiment 
boarded up, freighted, entered at the Custom House 
(startling the tide-waters with the novelty), hoisted 
into a ship. Conceive it pawed about and handled 
between the rude jests of tarpaulin ruffians — a thing 
of its delicate texture — the salt bilge wetting it till 
it became as vapid as a damaged lustring. Suppose 
it in material danger (mariners have some supersti- 
tion about sentiments) of being tossed over in a fresh 
gale to some propitiatory shark (spirit of Saint 



DISTANT COBRESPONDENTS 219 

Gotliard,^ save us from a quietus so foreign to the de- 
viser 's purpose!) but it lias happily evaded a fishy 
consummation. Trace it then to its lucky landing — 
at Lyons shall we say ? — I have not the map before 
me — jostled upon four men's shoulders — baiting at 
this town — stopping to refresh at t'other village — 
waiting a passport here, a license there ; the sanction 
of the magistracy in this district, the concurrence of 
the ecclesiastics in that canton; till at length it ar- 
rives at its destination, tired out and jaded, from a 
brisk sentiment, into a feature of silly pride or taw- 
dry senseless affectation. How few sentiments, my 
dear F., I am afraid we can set down, in the sailor's 
phrase, as quite sea-worthy. 

Lastly, as to the agreeable levities, which, though 
contemptible in bulk, are the twinkling corpuscula 
which should irradiate a right friendly epistle — your 
puns and small jests are, I apprehend, extremely cir- 
cumscribed in their sphere of action. They are so 
far from a capacity of being packed up and sent be- 
yond sea, they will scarce endure to be transported 
by hand from this room to the next. Their vigor is as 
the instant of their birth. The nutriment for their 
brief existence is the intellectual atmosphere of the by- 
standers : or this last, is the fine slime of Nilus — the 
melior lutus,^ — whose maternal recipiency is as neces- 
sary as the sol-pater ^ to their equivocal generation. 
A pun hath a hearty kind of present ear-kissing 
smack with it ; you can no more transmit it in its pris- 
tine flavor, than you can send a kiss. — Have you not 



220 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

tried in some instances to palm off yesterday's pun 
upon a gentleman, and has it answered? Not but it 
was new to liis hearing, but it did not seem to come 
new from you. It did not hitch in. It was like 
picking up at a village ale-house a two-days-old news- 
paper. You have not seen it before, but you resent 
the stale thing as an affront. This sort of merchan- 
dise above all requires a quick return. A pun, and 
its recognitory laugh, must be co-instantaneous. The 
one is the brisk lightning, the other the fierce thunder. 
A moment's interval, and the link is snapped. A 
pun is reflected from a friend's face as from a mir- 
ror. Who would consult his sweet visnomy, if the 
polished surface were two or three minutes (not to 
speak of twelve-months, my dear F.) in giving back 
its copy? 

I cannot image to myself whereabout you are. 
When I try to fix it, Peter Wilkins 's ^ island comes 
across me. Sometimes you seem to be in the Hades 
of Thieves, 1 see Diogenes ^ prying among you with 
his perpetual fruitless lantern. What must you be 
willing by this time to give for the sight of an honest 
man ! You must almost have forgotten how we look. 
And tell me, what your Sydneyites ^ do ? are they 
th**v*ng all day long? Merciful heaven! what prop- 
erty can stand against such a depredation ! The kan- 
garoos — your Aborigines — do they keep their primi- 
tive simplicity un-Europe-tainted, with those little 
short fore-puds, looking like a lesson framed by na- 
ture to the pickpocket! Marry, for diving into fobs 



DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS 221 

they are rather lamely provided a priori; but if the 
hue and cry were once up, they would show as fair 
a pair of hind-shifters as the expertest loco-motor in 
the colony. — We hear the most improbable tales at 
this distance. Pray, is it true that the young Spar- 
tans among you are born with six fingers, which 
spoils their scanning? — It must look very odd; but 
use reconciles. For their scansion, it is less to be 
regretted, for if they take it into their heads to be 
poets, it is odds but they turn out, the greater part of 
them, vile plagiarists. — Is there much difference to 
see to between the son of a th**f, and the grandson? 
or where does the taint stop ? Do you bleach in three 
or in four generations? — I have many questions to 
put, but ten Delphic voyages ^ can be made in a 
shorter time than it will take to satisfy my scruples. 
— Do you grow your own hemp? — What is your 
staple trade, exclusive of the national profession, I 
mean? Your lock-smiths, I take it, are some of your 
great capitalists. 

I am insensibly chatting to you as familiarly as 
when we used to exchange good-morrows out of our old 
contiguous windows, in pump-famed Hare Court in 
the Temple. Why did you ever leave that quiet cor- 
ner ? — Why did I ? — ^with its complement of four poor 
elms, from whose smoke-dyed barks, the theme of 
jesting ruralists, I picked my first lady-birds! My 
heart is as dry as that spring sometimes proves in a 
thirsty August, when I revert to the space that is 
between us; a length of passage enough to render 



222 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

obsolete the phrases of our English letters before they 
can reach you. But while I talk, I think you hear 
me, — thoughts dallying with vain surmise — 

Aye nie ! while thee the seas and sounding shores 
Hold far away.i 

Come back, before I am grown into a very old man, 
so as you shall hardly know me. Come, before Brid- 
get walks on crutches. Girls whom you left children 
have become sage matrons, while you are tarrying 

there. The blooming Miss W r ^ (you remember 

Sally W — — r) called upon us yesterday, an aged 
crone. Folks, whom you knew, die off every year. 
Formerly, I thought that death was wearing out, — 
•I stood ramparted about with so many healthy friends. 
The departure of J. W.,^ two springs back corrected 
my delusion. Since then the old divorcer has been 
busy. If you do not make haste to return, there will 
be little left to greet you, of me, or mine. 

THE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 

I LIKE to meet a sweep — understand me — not a grown 
sweeper — old chimney-sweepers are by no means at- 
tractive — but one of those tender novices, blooming 
their first nigritude, the maternal washings not quite 
effaced from the cheek — such as come forth with the 
dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little profes- 
sional notes sounding like the peep peep of a young 
sparrow; or liker to the matin lark should I pro- 



THE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 223 

nounce them, in their aerial ascents not seldom an- 
ticipating the sun-rise? 

I have a kindly yearning toward these dim specks 
— poor blots — innocent blacknesses — 

I reverence these young Africans of our own 
growth — these almost clergy imps, who sport their 
cloth without assumption; and from their little pul- 
pits (the tops of chimneys), in the nipping air of a 
December morning, preach a lesson of patience to 
mankind. 

When a child, what a mysterious pleasure it was to 
witness their operation ! to see a chit no bigger than 
one's self enter, one knew not by what process, into 
what seemed the fauces Averni ^ — to pursue him in 
imagination, as he went sounding on through so many 
dark stifling caverns, horrid shades ! — to shudder with 
the idea that ''now," surely, he must be lost for 
ever ! ' ' — to revive at hearing his feeble shout of dis- 
covered day-light — and then (0 fulness of delight) 
running out of doors, to come just in time to see the 
sable phenomenon emerge in safety, the brandished 
weapon of his art victorious like some flag waved over 
a conquered citadel ! I seem to remember having 
been told, that a bad sweep was once left in a stack 
with his brush, to indicate which way the wind blew. 
It was an awful spectacle certainly; not much unlike 
the old stage direction in Macbeth,^ where the "Ap- 
parition of a child crowned with a tree in his hand 
rises. ' ' 

Reader, if thou meetest one of these small gentry 



224 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

in thy early rambles, it is good to give him a penny. 
It is better to give him two-pence. If it be starving 
weather, and to the proper troubles of his hard occu- 
pation, a pair of kibed heels (no unusual accompani- 
ment) be superadded, the demand on thy humanity 
will surely rise to a tester. 

There is a composition, the ground-work of which 
I have understood to be the sweet wood 'ydept sassa- 
fras. This wood boiled down to a kind of tea, and 
tempered with an infusion of milk and sugar, hath 
to some tastes a delicacy beyond the China luxury. 
I know not how thy palate may relish it ; for myself, 
with every deference to the judicious Mr. Read, who 
hath time out of mind kept open a shop (the only 
one he avers in London) for the vending of this 
'' wholesome and pleasant beverage," on the south 
side of Fleet Street, as thou approachest Bridge 
Street — the only Salopian house, ^ — I have never yet 
ventured to dip my own particular lip in a basin of 
his commended ingredients — a cautious premonition 
to the olfactories constantly whispering to me, that 
my stomach must infallibly, with all due courtesy, 
decline it. Yet I have seen palates, otherwise not 
uninstructed in dietetical elegancies, sup it up with 
avidity. 

I know not by what particular conformation of 
the organ it happens, but I have always found that 
this composition is surprisingly gratifying to the 
palate of a young chimney-sweeper — whether the 
oily particles (sassafras is slightly oleaginous) do at- 



THE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 225 

tenuate and soften the fuliginous concretions, which 
are sometimes found (in dissections) to adhere to 
the roof of the mouth in these unfledged practi- 
tioners ; or whether Nature, sensible that she had 
mingled too much of bitter wood in the lot of these 
raw victims, caused to grow out of the earth her 
sassafras for a sweet lenitive — but so it is, that no 
possible taste or odor to the senses of a young chim- 
ney-sweeper can convey a delicate excitement com- 
parable to this mixture. Being penniless, they will 
yet hang their black heads over the ascending steam, 
to gratify one sense if possible, seemingly no less 
pleased than those domestic animals — cats — ^when 
they purr over a new-found sprig of valerian. There 
is something more in these sympathies than philoso- 
phy can inculcate. 

Now albeit Mr. Read boasteth, not without reason, 
that his is the only Salopian house; yet be it known 
to thee, reader — if thou art one who keepest what are 
called good hours, thou art haply ignorant of the fact 
— he hath a race of industrious imitators, who from 
stalls, and under open sky, dispense the same savory 
mess to humbler customers, at that dead time of the 
dawn, when (as extremes meet) the rake, reeling home 
from his midnight cups, and the hard-handed artisan 
leaving his bed to resume the premature labors of 
the day, jostle, not unfrequently to the manifest dis- 
concerting of the former, for the honors of the pave- 
ment. It is the time when, in summer, between the 
expired and the not yet relumined kitchen-fires, the 



226 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

kennels of our fair metropolis give forth their least 
satisfactory odors. The rake, who wisheth to dis- 
sipate his o'er-night vapors in more grateful coffee, 
curses the ungenial fume, as he passeth; but the 
artisan stops to taste, and blesses the fragrant break- 
fast. 

This is Saloop — the precocious herb-woman's dar- 
ling — the delight of the early gardener, who trans- 
ports his smoking cabbages by break of day from 
Hammersmith to Covent Garden's famed piazzas — 
the delight, and, oh I fear, too often the envy, of the 
unpennied sweep. Him shouldest thou haply en- 
counter, with his dim visage pendent over the grateful 
steam, regale him with a sumptuous basin (it will cost 
thee but three half -pennies) and a slice of delicate 
bread and butter (an added halfpenny) — so may thy 
culinary fires, eased of the o'er-charged secretions 
from thy worse-placed hospitalities, curl up a lighter 
volume to the welkin — so may the descending soot 
never taint thy costly well-ingredienced soups — nor 
the odious cry, quick-reaching from street to street, 
of the fired chimney, invite the rattling engines from 
ten adjacent parishes, to disturb for a casual scin- 
tillation thy peace and pocket! 

I am by nature extremely susceptible of street af- 
fronts ; the jeers and taunts of the populace ; the low- 
bred triumph they display over the casual trip, or 
splashed stocking, of a gentleman. Yet can I en- 
dure the jocularity of a young sweep with something 
more than forgiveness. — In the last winter but one, 



THE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 227 

pacing along Cheapside with my accustomed pre- 
cipitation when I walk westward, a treacherous slide 
brought me upon my back in an instant. I scrambled 
up with pain and shame enough — yet outwardly try- 
ing to face it down, as if nothing had happened — 
when the roguish grin of one of these young wits en- 
countered me. There he stood, pointing me out with 
his dusky finger to the mob, and to a poor woman (I 
suppose his mother) in particular, till the tears for 
the exquisiteness of the fun (so he thought it) worked 
themselves out at the corners of his poor red eyes, 
red from many a previous weeping, and soot-inflamed, 
yet twinkling through all with such a joy, snatched 

out of desolation, that Hogarth ^ but Hogarth has 

got him already (how could he miss him?) in the 

March to Finchley, grinning at the pie-man there 

he stood, as he stands in the picture, irremovable, as 
if the jest was to last for ever — with such a maximum 
of glee, and minimum of mischief, in his mirth — 
for the grin of a genuine sweep hath absolutely no 
malice in it — that I could have been content, if the 
honor of a gentleman might endure it, to have re- 
mained his butt and his mockery till midnight. 

I am by theory obdurate to the seductiveness of 
what are called a fine set of teeth. Every pair of 
rosy lips (the ladies must pardon me) is a casket, 
presumably holding such jewels; but, methinks, they 
should take leave to ''air" them as frugally as pos- 
sible. The fine lady, or fine gentleman, who show 
me their teeth, show me bones. Yet must I confess. 



228 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

that from the mouth of a true sweep a display (even 
to ostentation) of those white and shining ossifica- 
tions, strikes me as an agreeable anomaly in manners, 
and an allowable piece of foppery. It is, as when 

A sable cloud 
Turns forth her silver lining on the night. i 

It is like some remnant of gentry not quite extinct; 
a badge of better days ; a hint of nobility ;— and, 
doubtless, under the obscuring darkness and double 
night of their forlorn disguisement, oftentimes lurk- 
eth good blood, and gentle conditions, derived from 
lost ancestry, and a lapsed pedigree. The prema- 
ture apprenticements of these tender victims give but 
too much encouragement, I fear, to clandestine, and 
almost infantile abductions; the seeds of civility and 
true courtesy, so often discernible in these young 
grafts (not otherwise to be accounted for) plainly 
hint at some forced adoptions; many noble Rachels 
mourning for their children,^ even in our days, coun- 
tenance the fact; the tales of fairy-spiriting may 
shadow a lamentable verity, and the recovery of the 
young Montagu^ be but a solitary instance of good 
fortune, out of many irreparable and hopeless de- 
filiations. 

In one of the state-beds at Arundel Castle,* a few 
years since — under a ducal canopy — (that seat of the 
Howards is an object of curiosity to visitors, chiefly 
for its beds, in which the late duke was especially a 
connoisseur) — encircled with curtains of delicatest 



TEE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY-8WEEPEB8 229 

crimson, with starry coronets inwoven — folded be- 
tween a pair of sheets whiter and softer than the lap 
where Venus lulled Ascanius ^ — was discovered by 
chance, after all methods of search had failed, at 
noon-day, fast asleep, a lost chimney sweeper. The 
little creature, having somehow confounded his pas- 
sage among the intricacies of those lordly chimneys, 
by some unknown aperture had alighted upon this 
magnificent chamber; and, tired with his tedious ex- 
plorations, was unable to resist the delicious invite- 
ment to repose, which he there saw exhibited; so, 
creeping between the sheets very quietly, laid his 
black head upon the pillow, and slept like a young 
Howard. 

Such is the account given to the visitors at the 
Castle. — But I cannot help seeming to perceive a con- 
firmation of what I have just hinted at in this story. 
A high instinct was at work in the case, or I am mis- 
taken. Is it probable that a poor child of that, de- 
scription, with whatever weariness he might be visited, 
would have ventured, under such a penalty, as he 
would be taught to expect, to uncover the sheets of a 
Duke's bed, and deliberately to lay himself down be- 
tween them, when the rug, or the carpet, presented 
an obvious couch, still far above his pretensions — 
is this probable, I would ask, if the great power of 
nature, which I contend for, had not been manifested 
within him, prompting to the adventure? Doubt- 
less this young nobleman (for such my mind mis- 
gives me that he must be) was allured by some mem- 



230 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

ory, not amounting to full consciousness, of his con- 
dition in infancy, when he was used to be lapt by his 
mother, or his nurse, in just such sheets as. he there 
found, into which he was but now creeping back as 
into his proper incunabula^ and resting-place. — By 
no other theory, than by this sentiment of a pre-ex- 
istent state (as I may call it), can I explain a deed 
so venturous, and, indeed, upon any other system, 
so indecorous, in this tender, but unseasonable, 
sleeper. 

My pleasant friend Jem White was so impressed 
with a belief of metamorphoses like this frequently 
taking place, that in some sort to reverse the wrongs 
of fortune in these poor changelings, he instituted an 
annual feast of chimney-sweepers, at which it was it 
was his pleasure to officiate as host and waiter. It 
was a solemn supper held in Smithfield, upon the 
yearly return of the fair of St. Bartholomew.^ Cards 
were issued a week before to the master-sweeps in 
and about the metropolis, confining the invitation 
to their younger fry. Now and then an elderly 
stripling would get in among us, and be good-na- 
turedly winked at ; but our main body were infantry. 
One unfortunate wight, indeed, who relying upon his 
dusky suit, had intruded himself into our party, but 
by tokens was providentially discovered in time to be 
no chimney-sweeper (all is not soot which looks so), 
was quoited out of the presence with universal indig- 
nation, as not having on the wedding garment ; but in 
general the greatest harmony prevailed. The place 



THE PRAISE OP CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 231 

chosen was a convenient spot among the pens, at the 
north side of the fair, not so far distant as to be im- 
pervious to the agreeable hubbub of that vanity; but 
remote enough not to be obvious to the interruption 
of every gaping spectator in it. The guests assem- 
bled about seven. In those little temporary parlors 
three tables were spread with napery, not so fine as 
substantial, and at every board a comely hostess pre- 
sided with her pan of hissing sausages. The nostrils 
of the young rogues dilated at the savor. James 
White, as head waiter, had charge of the first table; 
and myself, with our trusty companion Bigod, or- 
dinarily ministered to the other two. There was 
clambering and jostling, you may be sure, who should 
get at the first table — for Rochester in his maddest 
days ^ could not have done the humors of the scene 
with more spirit than my friend. After some gen- 
eral expression of thanks for the honor the company 
had done him, his inaugural ceremony was to clasp 
the greasy waist of old dame Ursula (the fattest of 
the three), that stood frying and fretting, half- 
blessing, half-cursing ''the gentleman," and imprint 
upon her chaste lips a tender salute, whereat the uni- 
versal host would set up a shout that tore the con- 
cave, while hundreds of grinning teeth startled the 
night with their brightness. it was a pleasure to 
see the sable younkers lick in the unctuous meat, 
with his more unctuous sayings — how he would fit 
the tit-bits to the puny mouths, reserving the length- 
ier links for the seniors — how he would intercept 



232 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

a morsel even in the jaws of some young desperado, 
declaring it "must to the pan again to be browTied, 
for it was not fit for a gentleman's eating"— how he 
would recommend this slice of white bread, or that 
piece of kissing-crust, to a tender juvenile, advising 
them all to have a care of cracking their teeth, which 
were their best patrimony, — how genteelly he wx)uld 
deal about the small ale, as if it were wine, naming 
the brewer, and protesting, if it were not good he 
should lose their custom ; with a special recommenda- 
tion to wipe the lip before drinking. Then we had 
our toasts — ' ' The King, ' ' — the ' ' Cloth, ' ' ^ — ^which, 
whether they understood or not, was equally diverting 
and flattering : — and for a crowning sentiment, which 
never failed, "May the Brush supersede the Laurel." 
All these, and fifty other fancies, which were rather 
felt than comprehended by his guests, would he utter, 
standing upon tables, and prefacing every sentiment 
with a "Gentlemen, give me leave to propose so and 
so," which was a prodigious comfort to those young 
orphans; every now and then stuffing into his mouth 
(for it did not do to be squeamish on these occasions) 
indiscriminate pieces- of those reeking sausages, which 
pleased them mightily, and was the savoriest part, 
you may believe, of the entertainment. 

Golden lads and lasses nnist, 

As chimney-sweepers, come • to dust — 2 

James White is extinct,^ and with him -these suppers 
have long ceased. He carried away with him half the 



ON THE DECAY OF BEGGARS 233 

fun of the world when he died^of my world at least. 
His old clients look for him among the pens; and, 
missing him, reproach the altered feast of St. Bar- 
tholomew, and the glory of Smithfield departed for 
ever. 

A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OF BEGGARS 
IN THE METROPOLIS 

The all-sweeping bosom of societarian reformation — 
yonr only modern Alcides 's club- to rid the time of its 
abuses — is uplift with many-handed sway to ex- 
tirpate the last fluttering tatters of the bugbear Men- 
dicity from the metropolis. Scrips, wallets, bags — ■ 
staves, dogs, and crutches — the whole mendicant fra- 
ternity with all their baggage are fast posting out of 
the purlieus of this eleventh persecution. From the 
crowded crossing, from the corners of streets and 
turnings of alleys, the parting Genius of Beggary is 
''with sighing sent." 

I do not approve of this wholesale going to work, 
this impertinent crusado or helium ad extermina- 
tionem, proclaimed against a species. Much good 
might be sucked from these Beggars. 

They were the oldest and the honorablest form of 
pauperism. Their appeals were to our common na- 
ture; less revolting to an ingenuous mind than to 
be a suppliant to the particular humors or caprice 
of any fellow-creature, or set of fellow-creatures, 
parochial or societarian. Theirs were the only rates 



234 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

uninvidious in the levy, ungrudged in the assess- 
ment. 

There was a dignity springing from the very depth 
of their desolation; as to be naked is to be so much 
nearer to the being a man, than to go in livery. 

The greatest spirits have felt this in their reverses ; 
and when Dionysins ^ from king turned schoolmaster, 
do we feel any thing towards him but contempt? 
Could Vandyke ^ have made a picture of him, swaying 
a ferula for a scepter, which would have affected our 
minds with the same heroic pity, the same compas- 
sionate admiration, with which we regard his Belisa- 
rius ^ begging for an oholusf Would the moral have 
been more graceful, more pathetic? 

The Blind Beggar * in the legend — the father of 
pretty Bessy — whose story doggrel rhymes and ale- 
house signs cannot so degrade or attenuate, but that 
some sparks of a lustrous spirit will shine through 
the disguisements — this noble Earl of Cornwall (as 
indeed he was) and memorable sport of fortune, 
fleeing from the unjust sentence of his liege lord, 
stripped of all, and seated on the flowering green of 
Bethnal, with his more fresh and springing daughter 
by his side, illumining his rags and his beggary — 
would the child and parent have cut a better figure, 
doing the honors of a counter, or expiating their 
fallen condition upon the three- foot eminence of some 
sempstering shop-board ? 

In tale or history your Beggar is ever the just 
antipode to your King. The poets and romancical 



ON THE DECAY OF BEGGARS 235 

writers (as dear Margaret Newcastle would call them) 
when they would most sharply and feelingly paint a 
reverse of fortune, never stop till they have brought 
down their hero in good earnest to rags and the wal- 
let. The depth of the descent illustrates the height 
he falls from. There is no medium which can be 
presented to the imagination without offense. There 
is no breaking the fall. Lear, thrown from his 
palace/ must divest him of his garments, till he an- 
swer "mere nature"; and Cresseid,- fallen from a 
prince's love, must extend her pale arms, pale with 
other whiteness than of beauty, supplicating lazar 
alms with bell and clapdish. 

The Lucian wits ^ knew this very well ; and, with a 
converse policy, when they would express scorn of 
greatness without the pity, they show us an Alexan- 
der in the shades cobbling shoes, or a Semiramis,* 
getting up foul linen. 

How would it sound in song, that a great monarch 
had declined his affections upon the daughter of a 
baker! yet do we feel the imagination at all violated 
when we read the ''true ballad," where King 
Cophetua ^ woos the beggar maid ? 

Pauperism, pauper, poor man, are expressions of 
pity, but pity alloyed with contempt. No one prop- 
erly contemns a beggar. Poverty is a comparative 
thing, and each degree of it is mocked by its ''neigh- 
bor grice." Its poor rents and comings-in are soon 
summed up and told. Its pretenses to poverty are 
almost ludicrous. Its pitiful attempts to save ex- 



236 TEE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

cite a smile. Every scornful companion can weigh 
his trifle-bigger purse against it. Poor man re- 
proaches poor man in the streets with impolitic men- 
tion of his condition, his own being a shade better, 
while the rich pass by and jeer at both. No rascally 
comparative insults a Beggar, or thinks of weighing 
purses with him. He is not in the scale of com- 
parison. He is not under the measure of property. 
He confessedly hath none, any more than a dog or a 
sheep. No one twitteth him with ostentation above 
his means. No one accuses him of pride, or up- 
braideth him with mock humility. None jostle with 
him for the wall, or pick quarrels for precedency. 
No wealthy neighbor seeketh to eject him from his 
tenement. No man sues him. No man goes to law 
with him. If I were not the independent gentleman 
that I am, rather than I would be a retainer to the 
great, a led captain or a poor relation, I would choose, 
out of the delicacy and true greatness of my mind, to 
be a Beggar. 

Rags, which are the reproach of poverty, are the 
Beggar's robes, and graceful insignia of his profes- 
sion, his tenure, his full dress, the suit in which he 
is expected to show himself in public. He is never 
out of the fashion, or limpeth awkwardly behind it. 
He is not required to put on court mourning. He 
weareth all colors, fearing none. His costume hath 
undergone less change than the Quaker's. He is the 
only man in the universe who is not obliged to study 
appearances. The ups and downs of the world con- 



ON TEE DECAY OF BEGGARS 237 

cern liini no longer. He alone continueth in one 
stay. The price of stock or land affecteth him not. 
The fluctuations of agricultural or commercial pros- 
perity touch him not, or at worst but change his cus- 
tomers. He is not expected to become bail or surety 
for any one. No man troubleth him with question- 
ing his religion or politics. He is the only free man 
in the universe. 

The Mendicants of this great city were so many 
of her sights, her lions. I can no more spare them 
than I could the Cries of London. No corner of a 
street is complete without them. They are as in- 
dispensable as the Ballad Singer ; and in their pictur- 
esque attire as ornamental as the Signs of old London. 
They were the standing morals, emblems, mementos, 
dial-mottoes, the spital sermons, the books for children, 
the salutary checks and pauses to the high and rush- 
ing tide of greasy citizenry — 

Look 



Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there. 

Above all, those old blind Tobits ^ that used to line 
the wall of Lincoln's Inn Garden, before modem 
fastidiousness had expelled them, casting up their 
ruined orbs to catch a ray of pity, and (if possible) 
of light, with their faithful Dog Guide at their feet, — 
whither are they fled? or into what corners, blind 
as themselves, have they been driven, out of the 
wholesome air and sun-warmth? immersed between 
four walls, in what withering poor-house do they en- 



238 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

dure the penalty of double darkness, where the chink 
of the dropped half -penny no more consoles their for- 
lorn bereavement, far from the sound of the cheerful 
and hope-stirring tread of the passenger ? Where hang 
their useless staves? and who will farm their dogs? — 

Have the overseers of St. L caused them to be 

shot ? or were they tied up in sacks, and dropped into 

the Thames, at the suggestion of B , the mild 

Bector of ? 

Well fare the soul of unfastidious Vincent Bourne,^ 
most classical, and at the same time, most English, of 
the Latinists! — who has treated of this human and 
quadrupedal alliance, this dog and man friendship, in 
the sweetest of his poems, the Epitaphium in Canem, 
or Dog's Epitaph. Reader, peruse it; and say, if 
customary sights, which could call up such gentle 
poetry a^s this, were of a nature to do more harm or 
good to the moral sense of the passengers through the 
daily thoroughfares of a vast and busy metropolis. 

Pauperis hie Iri requiesco Lyeiscus, herilis, 

Dum vixi, tutela vigil columenque senectae, 

Dux cseco fidus: nee, me ducente, solebat, 

Prsetenso hinc atque hinc baculo, per iniqua locorum 

Incertam explorare viam ; sed fila secutus, 

Quae dubios regerent passus vestigia tuta 

Fixit inoflPenso gressu; gelidumque sedile 

In nudo nactus saxo, qua prsetereuntium 

Unda frequens confluxit, ibi miserisque tenebras 

Lamentis, noctemque oculis ploravit obortam. 

Flora vit nee frustra; obolum dedit alter et alter, 

Quels corda et mentem indiderat natura benignam. 



ON TEE DECAY OF BEGGARS 239 

Ad latus interea jacui sopitus herile, 

Vel mediis vigil in somnis; ad herilia jussa 

Auresque atque animum arrectus, seu frustula amice 

Porrexit sociasqne dapes, seu longa diei 

Tffidia perpessus, reditum sub noete parabat. 

Hi mores, hsec vita fuit, dum fata sinebant, 

Dum neque languebam morbis, nee inerte senecta; 

Quge tandem obrepsit, veterique satellite cseeum 

Orbavit dominum: prisci sed gratia facti 

Ne tota intereat, longos deleta per annos, 

Exiguum hunc Irus tumulum de cespite fecit, 

Etsi inopis, non ingratse, munuscula dextrai; 

Carmine signavitque brevi, dominumque canemque 

Quod memoret, fidumque canem dominumque benignum. 

Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie, 

That wont to tend my old blind master's steps, 

His guide and guard: nor, while my service lasted, 

Had he occasion for that staff, with which 

He now goes picking out his path in fear 

Over the highways and crossings; but would plant. 

Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, 

A firm foot forward still, till he hath reach'd 

His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide 

Of passers by in thickest confluence flow'd: 

To whom with loud and passionate laments 

Prom morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd. 

Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there. 

The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave. 

I meantime at his feet obsequious slept; 

Not all-asleep in sleep but heart and ear 

Prick'd up at his least motion; to receive 

At his kind hand my customary crumbs. 

And common portion of his feast of scraps; 

Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent 

With our long day and tedious beggary. 



240 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

These were my manners, this my way of life, 
Till age and slow disease me overtook, 
And sever'd from my sightless master's side, 
But lest the grace of so good deeds should die, ' 
Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost, 
This slender tomb of turf hath Irus reared. 
Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand. 
And with short verse inscribed it, to attest. 
In long and lasting union to attest. 
The virtues of the beggar and his Dog. 

These dim eyes have in vain explored for some 
months past a well-knowjQ figure, or part of the figure, 
of a man, who used to glide his comely upper half 
over the pavements of London, wheeling along with 
most ingenious celerity upon a machine of wood; a 
spectacle to natives, to foreigners, and to children. 
He was of a robust make, with a florid sailor-like com- 
plexion, and his head was bare to the storm and sun- 
shine." He was a natural curiosity, a speculation to 
the scientific, a prodigy to the simple. The infant 
would stare at the mighty man brought down to his 
own level. The common cripple would despise his 
own pusillanimity, viewing the hale stoutness, and 
hearty heart, of this half-limbed giant. Few but 
must have noticed him; for the accident, which 
brought him low, took place during the riots of 1780, 
and he has been a groundling so long. He seemed 
earth-born, an Antseus,^ and to suck in fresh vigor 
from the soil which he neighbored. He was a grand 
fragment ; as good as an Elgin marble.^ The nature, 
which should have recruited his reft legs and thighs, 



ON THE DECAY OF BEGGARS 241 

was not lost, but only retired into his upper parts, 
and he was half a Hercules.^ I heard a tremendous 
voice thundering and growling, as before an earth- 
quake, and casting down my eyes, it was this man- 
drake reviling a steed that had started at his por- 
tentous appearance. He seemed to want but his just 
stature to have rent the offending quadruped in shiv- 
ers. He was as the man-part of a Centaur,^ from 
which the horse-half had been cloven in some dire 
Lapithan controversy. He moved on, as if he could 
have made shift with yet half of the body-portion 
which was left him. The os sublime ^ was not want- 
ing; and he threw out yet a jolly countenance upon 
the heavens. Forty-and-two years had he driven this 
out of door trade, and now that his hair is grizzled in 
the service, but his good spirits no way impaired, be- 
cause he is not content to exchange his free air and 
exercise for the restraints of a poor-house, he is ex- 
piating his contumacy in one of those houses (ironi- 
cally christened) of Correction. 

Was a daily spectacle like this to be deemed a 
nuisance, which called for legal interference to re- 
move ? or not rather a salutary and a touching object, 
to the passers-by in a great city? Among her shows, 
her museums, and supplies for ever-gaping curiosity 
(and what else but an accumulation of sights^end- 
less sights — is a great city; or for what else is it de- 
sirable?) was there not room for one Lusiis (not 
Naturm, indeed, but) Accidentiumf ^ What if in 
forty-and-two years going about, the man had scraped 



242 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

together enough to give a portion to his child (as the 
rumor ran) of a few hundreds — whom had he in- 
jured? — whom had he imposed upon? The, contrib- 
utors had enjoyed their sight for their pennies. What 
if after being exposed all day to the heats, the 
rains, and the frosts of heaven — shuffling his un- 
gainly trunk along in an elaborate and painful mo- 
tion — he was enabled to retire at night to enjoy 
himself at a club of his fellow cripples over a dish of 
hot meat and vegetables, as the charge was gravely 
brought against him by a clergyman deposing before 
a House of Commons' Committee — was this, or was 
his truly paternal consideration, which (if a fact) de- 
served a statue rather than a whipping-post, and is 
inconsistent at least with the exaggeration of noc- 
turnal orgies which he has been slandered with — a 
reason that he should be deprived of his chosen, 
harmless, nay edifying, way of life, and be com- 
mitted in hoary age for a sturdy vagabond? — 

There was a Yorick ^ once, whom it would not have 
shamed to have sat down at the cripples' feast and 
to have thrown in his benediction, ay, and his mite 
too, for a companionable symbol. ''Age, thou hast 
lost thy breed." — 

Half of these stories about the prodigious fortunes 
made by begging are (I verily believe) misers' calum- 
nies. One was much talked of in the public papers 
some time since, and the usual charitable inferences 
deduced. A clerk in the Bank was surprised with 
the announcement of a five hundred pound legacy left 



ON THE DECAY OF BEGGARS 243 

him by a person whose name he was a stranger to. 
It seems that in his daily morning walks from Peck- 
ham (or some village thereabouts) where he lived, 
to his office, it had been his practice for the last twenty 
years to drop his halfpenny duly into the hat of some 
blind Bartimeus,^ that sat begging alms by the way- 
side in the Borough. The good old beggar recognized 
his daily benefactor by the voice only; and, when he 
died, left all the amassings of his alms (that had been 
half a century perhaps in the accumulating) to his 
old Bank friend. Was this a story to purse up peo- 
ple's hearts, and pennies, against giving an alms to 
the blind? — or not rather a beautiful moral of well- 
directed charity on the one part, and noble gratitude 
upon the other? 

I sometimes wish I had been that Bank clerk. 

I seem to remember a poor old grateful kind of 
creature, blinking, and looking up with his no eyes in 
the sun — 

Is it possible I could have steeled my purse against 
him? 

Perhaps I had no small change. 

Reader, do not be frightened at the hard words, 
imposition, imposture — give, and ask no questions. 
Cast thy bread upon the waters. Some have un- 
awares (like this Bank clerk) entertained angels. 

Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted 
distress. Act a charity sometimes. When a poor 
creature (outwardly and visibly such) comes before 
thee, do not stay to inquire whether the "seven small 



244 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

children," in whose name he implores thy assistance, 
have a veritable existence. Kake not into the bowels 
of unwelcome truth, to save a halfpenny. It is good 
to believe him. If he be not all that he pretendeth, 
give, and under a personate father of a family, think 
(if thou pleasest) that thou hast relieved an indigent 
bachelor. When they come with their counterfeit 
looks, and mumping tones, think them players. You 
pay your money to see a comedian feign these things, 
which, concerning these poor people, thou canst not 
certainly tell whether they are feigned or not. 

A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 

Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript,^ w^hich my 
friend M.^ was obliging enough to read and explain to 
me, for the first seventy thousand ages, ate their meat 
raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, just 
as they do in Abyssinia to this day. This period is 
not obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius * in 
the second chapter of his Mundane Mutations, where 
he designates a kind of golden age by the term Cho- 
fang, literally the Cook's holiday. The manuscript 
goes on to say, that the art of roasting, or rather 
broiling (which I take to be the elder brother) was 
accidentally discovered in the manner following. 
The swine-herd, Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods 
one morning, as his manner was, to collect mast for 
his hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son 
Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who being fond of play- 



A DISSERTATION UPON BOAST PIG 245 

ing with fire, as younl^:ers of his age commonly are, 
let some sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which 
kindling- quickly, spread the conflagration over every 
part of their poor mansion, till it was reduced to 
ashes. Together with the cottage (a sorry antedi- 
luvian make-shift of a building, you may think it), 
what was of much more importance, a fine litter of 
new-farrowed pigs, no less than nine in number, per- 
ished. China pigs have been esteemed a luxury all 
over the East from the remotest periods that we read 
of. Bo-bo was in utmost consternation, as you may 
think, not so much for the sake of the tenement, 
which his father and he could easily build up again 
with a few dry branches, and the labor of an hour 
or two, at any time, as for the loss of the pigs. While 
he was thinking what he should say to his father, and 
wringing his hands over the smoking remnants of one 
of those untimely sufferers, an odor assailed his nos- 
trils, unlike any scent which he had before experi- 
enced. What could it proceed from? — not from the 
burnt cottage — he had smelt that smell before — in- 
deed this was by no means the first accident of the 
kind which had occurred through the negligence of 
this unlucky young fire-brand. • Much less did it re- 
semble that of any known herb, weed, or flower. A 
premonitory moistening at the same time overflowed 
his nether lip. He knew not what to think. He 
next stooped down to feel the pig, if there were any 
signs of life in it. He burnt his fingers, and to cool 
them he applied them in his booby fashion to his 



246 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

mouth. Some of the crums of the scorched skin had 
come away with his fingers, and for. the first time 
in his life (in the world's life indeed, for before him 
no man had known it) he tasted — cracJding! Again 
he felt and fumbled at the pig. It did not burn 
him so much now, still he licked his fingers from a 
sort of habit. The truth at length broke into his 
slow understanding, that it was the pig that smelt 
so, and the pig that tasted so delicious; and, sur- 
rendering himself up to the newborn pleasure, he fell 
to tearing up whole handfuls of the scorched skin 
with the flesh next it, and was cramming it down his 
throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire entered 
amid the smoking rafters, armed with retributory 
cudgel, and finding how affairs stood, began to rain 
blows upon the young rogue's shoulders, as thick as 
hailstones, which Bo-bo heeded not any more than if 
they had been flies. The tickling pleasure, which he 
experienced in his lower regions, had rendered him 
quite callous to any inconveniences he might feel in 
those remote quarters. His father might lay on, but 
he could not beat him from his pig, till he had fairly 
made an end of it, when, becoming a little more sensi- 
ble of his situation, something like the following dia- 
logue ensued. 

"You graceless whelp, what have you got there 
devouring? Is it not enough that you have burnt 
me down three houses with your dog's tricks, and be 
hanged to you, but you must be eating fire, and I 
know not what — ^what have you got there, I say ? ' ' 



A DISSERTATION UPON BOAST PIG 247 

"0 father, the pig, the pig, do come and taste how 
nice the burnt pig eats." 

The ears of Ho-ti- tingled with horror. He cursed 
his son, and he cursed himself that ever he should 
beget a son that should eat burnt pig. 

Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened 
since morning, soon raked out another pig, and fairly 
rending it asunder, thru'St the lesser half by main 
force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out "Eat, 
eat, eat the burnt pig, father, only taste — Lord," 
— with such-like barbarous ejaculations, cramming all 
the while as if he would choke. 

Ho-ti trembled every joint while he grasped the 
abominable thing, wavering whether he should not 
put his son to death for an unnatural young mon- 
ster, when the crackling scorching his fingers, as it 
had done his son's, and applying the same remedy 
to them, he in his turn tasted some of its flavor, 
which, make what sour mouths he would for a pre- 
tense, proved not altogether displeasing to him. In 
conclusion (for the manuscript here is a little tedi- 
ous) both father and son fairly sat down to the mess, 
and never left off till they had despatched all that 
remained of the litter. 

Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret 
escape, for the neighbors would certainly have stoned 
them for a couple of abominable wretches, who could 
think of improving upon the good meat which God 
had sent them. Nevertheless, strange stories got 
about. It was observed that Ho-ti 's cottasre was 



248 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

burnt down now more frequently than ever. Noth- 
ing but fires from this time forward. Some would 
break out in broad day, others in the night-time. 
As often as the sow farrowed, so sure was the house 
of Ho-ti to be in a blaze; and Ho-ti himself, which 
was the more remarkable, instead of chastising his 
son, seemed to grow more indulgent to him than 
ever. At length they were watched, the terrible mys- 
tery discovered, and father and son summoned to 
take their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable assize 
town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself 
produced in court, and verdict about to be pro- 
nounced, when the foreman of the jury begged that 
some of the burnt pig, of which the culprits stood 
accused, might be handed into the box. He handled 
it, and they all handled it, and burning their fingers, 
as Bo-bo and his father had done before them, and 
nature prompting to each of them the same remedy, 
against the face of all the facts, and the clearest 
charge which judge had ever given, — to the surprise 
of the whole court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, 
and all present — without leaving the box, or any 
manner of consultation whatever, they brought in 
a simultaneous verdict of Not Guilty. 

The Judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at 
the manifest iniquity of the decision; and, when the 
court was dismissed, went privily, and bought up 
all the pigs that could be had for love or money. In 
a few days his Lordship's town house was obsejrved 
to be on fire. The thing took wing, and now there 



A DISSERTATION UPON BOAST PIG 249 

was nothing to be seen but fires in every direction. 
Fuel and pigs grew enormously dear all over the 
district. The insurance offices one and all shut up 
shop. People built slighter and slighter every day, 
until it was feared that the very science of archi- 
tecture would in no long time be lost to the world. 
Thus this custom of firing houses continued, till in 
process of time, says my manuscript, a sage arose, 
like our Locke,^ who made a discovery, that the flesh 
of swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be 
cooked (hurnt, as they called it) without the neces- 
sity of consuming a whole house to dress it. Then 
first began the rude form of a gridiron. Roasting 
by the string, or spit, came in a century or two later, 
I forget in whose dynasty. By such slow degrees, 
concludes the manuscript, do the most useful,, and 
seemingly the most obvious arts, make their way 
among mankind. 

Without placing too implicit faith in the account 
above given, it must be agreed, that if a worthy pre- 
text for so dangerous an experiment as setting houses 
on fire (especially in these days) could be assigned 
in favor of any culinary object, that pretext and 
excuse might be found in roast pig. 

Of all the delicacies in the whole mundus edihilis,^ 
I will maintain it to be the most delicate — pfinceps 
ohsoniorum.^ 

I speak not of your grown porkers — things between 
pig and pork — those hobby dehoys — but a young and 
tender suckling — under a moon old — guiltless as yet 



250 . TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

of the sty — with no original speck of the amor im- 
munditice,^ the hereditary failing of the first parent, 
yet manifest — his voice as yet not broken, but some- 
thing between a childish treble, and a grumble — the 
mild forerunner, or prceludium, of a grunt. 

He must he roasted. I am not igonrant that our 
ancestors ate them seethed, or boiled — but what a 
sacrifice of the exterior tegument ! 

There is no flavor comparable, I will contend, to 
that of the crisp, tawny, well-watched, not' over- 
roasted, crackling, as it is well called — the very teeth 
are invited to their share of the pleasure at this ban- 
quet in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance — with 
the adhesive oleaginous — call it not fat — but an in- 
definable sweetness growing up to it — the tender 
blossoming of fat — fat cropped in the bud — taken in 
the shoot — in the first innocence — the cream and 

quintessence of the child-pig's yet pure food the 

lean, no lean, but a kind of animal manna — or, 
rather, fat and lean, (if it must be so) so blended 
and running into each other, that both together make 
but one ambrosian result, or common substance. 

Behold him, while he is doing — it seemeth rather a 
refreshing warmth, than a scorching heat, that he is 
so passive to. How equably he twirl eth round the 
string! — Now he is just done. To see the extreme 
sensibility of that tender age, he hath wept out his 
pretty eyes — radiant jellies — shooting stars — 

See him in the dish, his second cradle, how meek 
he lieth! — wouldst thou have had this innocent orow 



A DISSERTATION UPON BOAST PIG 251 

up to the grossness and indocility which too often 
accompany maturer swinehood ? Ten to one he would 
have proved a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate, disa- 
greeable animal — wallowing in all manner of filthy 
conversation — from these sins he is happily snatched 
away — 

Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade, 
Death came with timely care i — 

his memory is odoriferous — no clown curseth, while 
his stomach half rejecteth, the rank bacon — no coal- 
heaver bolteth him in reeking sausages — he hath a 
fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious 
epicure — and for such a tomb might be content to 
die. 

He is the best of Sapors. Pine-apple is great. She 
is indeed almost too transcendent — a delight, if not 
sinful, yet so like to sinning, that really a tender- 
conscienced person would do well to pause — too rav- 
ishing for mortal taste, she woundeth and excoriateth 
the lips that approach her — like lovers' kisses, she 
biteth — she is a pleasure bordering on pain from the 
fierceness and insanity of her relish — but she stop- 
peth at the palate — she meddleth not with the appe- 
tite — and the coarsest hunger might barter her con- 
sistently for a mutton chop. 

Pig — let me speak his praise — is no less provo- 
cative of the appetite, than he is satisfactory to the 
criticalness of the censorious palate. The strong man 
may batten on him, and weakling refuseth not his 
mild juices. 



252 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

Unlike to mankind's mixed characters, a bundle 
of virtues and vice, inexplicably intertwisted, and 
not to be unraveled without hazard, he is — good 
throughout. No part of him is better or worse than 
another. He helpeth, as far as his little means ex- 
tend, all around. He is the least envious of ban- 
quets. He is all neighbors' fare. 

I am one of those, who freely and ungrudgingly 
impart a share of the good things of this life which 
fall to their lot (few as mine are in this kind) to a 
friend. I protest I take as great an interest in my 
friend's pleasures, his relishes, and proper satisfac- 
tions, as in mine own. "Presents," I often say, "en- 
dear Absents." Hares, pheasants, partridges, snipes, 
barn-door chickens (those "tame villatic fowl"), 
capons, plovers, brawn, barrels of oysters, I dispense 
as freely as I receive them. I love to taste them, as 
it were, upon the tongue of my friend. But a stop 
must be put somewhere. One would not, like Lear, 
' ' give everything. ' ' I make my stand upon pig, Me- 
thinks it is an ingratitude to the Giver of all good 
flavors, to extra-domiciliate, or send out of the house, 
slightingly (under pretext of friendship, or I know 
not what) a blessing so particularly adapted, predes- 
tined, I may say, to my individual palate — It argues 
an insensibility. 

I remember a touch of conscience in this kind at 
school. My good old aunt, who never parted from 
me at the end of a holiday without stuffing a sweet- 
meat, or some nice thing, into my pocket, had dis- 



A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 253 

missed me one evening with a smoking plum-cake, 
fresh from the oven. In my way to school (it was 
over London Bridge) a gray-headed old beggar sa- 
luted me (I have no doubt at this time of day that 
he was a counterfeit). I had no pence to console 
him with, and in the vanity of self-denial, and 
the very coxcombry of charity, school-boy-like, I made 
him a present of — the whole cake! I walked on a 
little, buoyed up, as one is on such occasions, with 
a sweet soothing of self-satisfaction; but before I 
had got to the end of the bridge, my better feelings 
returned, and I burst into tears, thinking how un- 
grateful I had been to my good aunt, to go and give 
her good gift away to a stranger, that I had never 
seen before, and who might be a bad man for aught 
I knew; and then I thought of the pleasure my aunt 
would be taking in thinking that I — I myself, and not 
another — would eat her nice cake — and what should 
I say to her the next time I saw her — how naughty 
was I to part with her pretty present — and the odor 
of that spicy cake came back upon my recollection, 
and the pleasure and the curiosity I had taken in 
seeing her make it, and her joy when she sent it to 
the oven, and how disappointed she would feel that I 
had never had a bit of it in my mouth at last — and I 
blamed my impertinent spirit of alms-giving, and 
out-of-place hypocrisy of goodness, and above all I 
wished never to see the face again of that insidious, 
good-for-nothing, old gray impostor. 

Our ancestors were nice in their method of sac- 



254 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

rificing these tender victims. We read of pigs whipped 
to death with something of a shock, as we hear of 
any other obsolete custom. The age of discipline is 
gone by, or it would be curious to inquire (in a phi- 
losophical light merely) what effect this process might 
have towards intenerating and dulcifying a substance, 
naturally so mild and dulcet as the flesh of young 
pigs. It looks like refining a violet. Yet we should 
be cautious, while we condemn the inhumanity, how 
we censure the wisdom of the practice. It might 
impart a gusto — 

I remember an hypothesis, argued upon by the 
young students, when I was at St. Omer's,^ and main- 
tained with much learning and pleasantry on both 
sides, *' whether, supposing that the flavor of a pig 
who obtained his death by whipping (per flagellar 
tionem extremam)^ superadded a pleasure upon the 
palate of a man more intense than any possible suf- 
fering we can conceive in the animal, is man justified 
in using that method of putting the animal to death ? ' ' 
I forget the decision. 

His sauce should be considered. Decidedly, a few 
bread crumbs, done up with his liver and brains, and 
a dash of mild sage. But, banish, dear Mrs. Cook, 
I beseech you, the whole onion tribe. Barbecue your 
whole hogs to your palate, steep them in shalots, stuff 
them out with plantations of the rank and guilty 
garlic ; you cannot poison them, or make them 
stronger than they are — but consider, he is a weak- 
ling — a flower. 



A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT 255 



A BACHELOE'S COMPLAINT OF THE 
BEHAVIOE OP MARRIED PEOPLE 

As a single man, I have spent a good deal of my time 
in noting down the infirmities of Married People, 
to console myself for those superior pleasures, which 
they tell me I have lost by remaining as I am. 

I cannot say that the quarrels of men and their 
wives ever made any great impression upon me, or 
had much tendency to strengthen me in those anti- 
social resolutions, which I took up long ago upon 
more substantial considerations. What oftenest of- 
fends me at the houses of married persons where I 
visit, is an error of quite a different description; — 
it is that they are too loving. 

Not too loving neither: that does not explain my 
meaning. Besides, why should that offend me ? The 
very act of separating themselves from the rest of 
the world, to have the fuller enjoyment of each oth- 
er's society, implies that they prefer one another to 
all the world. 

But what I complain of is, that they carry this 
preference so undisguisedly, they perk it up in the 
faces of us single people so shamelessly, you cannot 
be in their company a moment without being made 
to feel, by some indirect hint or open avowal, that 
you are not the object of this preference. Now there 
are some things which give no offense, while implied 
or taken for granted merely; but expressed, there is 



256 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

much offense in them. If a man were to accost the 
first homely-featured or plain-dressed young woman 
of his acquaintance, and tell her bluntly, that she 
was not handsome or rich enough for him, and he 
could not marry her, he would deserve to be 
kicked for his ill manners; yet no less is implied 
in the fact, that having access and oppor- 
tunity of putting the question to her, he has never 
yet thought fit to do it. The young woman under- 
stands this as clearly as if it were put into words; 
but no reasonable young woman would think of mak- 
ing this a ground of a quarrel. Just, as little right 
have a married couple to tell me by speeches and looks 
that are scarce less plain than speeches, that I 
am not the happy man, — the lady's choice. It is 
enough that I know that I am not: I do not want 
this perpetual reminding. 

The display of superior knowledge or riches may 
be made sufficiently mortifying: but these admit of 
a palliative. The knowledge which is brought out to 
insult me, may accidentally improve me; and in the 
rich man's houses and pictures, — ^his parks and gar- 
dens, I have a temporary usufruct at least. But the 
display of married happiness has none of these pal- 
liatives; it is throughout pure, unrecompensed, un- 
qualified insult. 

Marriage by its best title is a monopoly, and not 
of the least invidious sort. It is the cunning of most 
possessors of any exclusive privilege to keep their 
advantage as much out of sight as possible, that their 



A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT 257 

less favored neighbors, seeing little of the benefit, 
may the less be disposed to question the right. But 
these married monopolists thrust the most obnoxious 
part of their patent into our faces. 

Nothing is to me more distasteful than that entire 
complacency and satisfaction which beam in the coun- 
tenances of a new-married couple, — in that of the 
lady particularly; it tells you, that her lot is dis- 
posed of in this world: that you can have no hopes 
of her. It is true, I have none; nor wishes either, 
perhaps; but this is one of those truths which ought, 
as I said before, to be taken for granted, not ex- 
pressed. 

The excessive airs which those people give them- 
selves, founded on the ignorance of us unmarried 
people, would be more offensive if they were less 
irrational. We will allow them to understand the 
mysteries belonging to their own craft better than 
we who have not had the happiness to be made free 
of the company: but their arrogance is not content 
within these limits. If a single person presume to 
offer his opinion in their presence, though upon the 
most indifferent subject, he is immediately silenced 
as an incompetent person. Nay, a young married 
lady of my acquaintance who, the best of the jest 
was, had not changed her condition above a fort- 
night before, in a question on which I had the mis- 
fortune to differ from her, respecting the properest 
mode of breeding oysters for the London market, had 
the assurance to ask with a sneer, how such an old 



258 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Bachelor as I could pretend to know anything about 
such matters. 

But what I have spoken of hitherto is nothing to 
the airs which these creatures give themselves when 
they come, as they generally do, to have children. 
When I consider how little of a rarity children are, — 
that every street and blind alley swarms with them, 
— that the poorest people commonly have them in 
most abundance, — that there are few marriages that 
are not blest with at least one of these bargains, — ■ 
how often they turn out ill, and defeat the fond hopes 
of their parents, taking to vicious courses, which end 
in poverty, disgrace, the gallows, &c. — I cannot for 
my life tell what cause for pride there can possibly 
be in having them. If they were young phoenixes,^ 
indeed, that were born but one in a year, there might 
be a pretext. But when they are so common 

I do not advert to the insolent merit which they 
assume with their husbands on these occasions. Let 
them look to that. But why we, who are not their 
natural -born subjects, should be expected to bring 
our spices, myrrh, and incense, — our tribute and 
homage of admiration, — I do not see. 

''Like a^ the arrows in the hand of the giant, even 
so are the young children : " so says the excellent office 
in our Prayer-book appointed for the churching of 
women. "Happy is the man that hath his quiver 
full of them:" So say I; but then don't let him 
discharge his quiver upon us that are weaponless; — • 
let them be arrows, but not to gall and stick us. I 



A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT 259 

have generally observed that these arrows are double- 
headed; they have two forks, to be sure to hit with 
one or the other. As for instance, where you come 
into a house which is full of children, if you happen 
to take no notice of them (you are thinking of some- 
thing else, perhaps, and turn a deaf ear to their inno- 
cent caresses), you are set down as untr actable, mo- 
rose, a hater of children. On the other hand, if you 
find them more than usually engaging, — if you are 
taken with their pretty manners, and set about in 
earnest to romp and play with them, some pretext 
or other is sure to be found for sending them out 
of the room: they are too noisy or boisterous, or 

Mr. does not like children. With one or other 

of these forks the arrow is sure to hit you. 

I could forgive their jealousy, and dispense with 
toying with their brats, if it gives them any pain; 
but I think it unreasonable to be called upon to love 
them, where I see no occasion, — to love a whole fam- 
ily, perhaps, eight, nine, or ten, indiscriminately, — 
to love all the pretty dears, because children are so 
engaging. 

I know there is a proverb, "Love me, love my 
dog : " ^ that is not always so very practicable, par- 
ticularly if the dog be set upon you to tease you or 
snap at you in sport. But a dog, or a lesser thing, — ■ 
any inanimate substance, as a keepsake, a watch or 
a ring, a tree, or the place where we last parted when 
my friend went away upon a long absence, I can 
make shift to love, because I love him, and anything 



260 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

that reminds me of him ; provided it be in its nature 
indifferent, and apt to receive whatever hue fancy 
can give it. But children have a real character and 
an essential being of themselves : they are amiable or 
unamiable per se; I must love or hate them, as I see 
cause for either in their qualities. A child's nature 
is too serious a thing to admit of its being regarded 
as a mere appendage to another being, and to be 
loved or hated accordingly : they stand with me upon 
their own stock, as much as men and women do. ! 
but you will say, sure it is an attractive age, — there is 
something in the tender years of infancy that of 
itself charms us. That is the very reason why I am 
more nice about them. I know that a sweet child 
is the sweetest thing in nature, not even excepting 
the delicate creatures which bear them; but the pret- 
tier the kind of a thing is, the more desirable it is 
that it should be pretty of its kind. One daisy dif- 
fers not much from another in glory; but a violet 
should look and smell the daintiest. — I was always 
rather squeamish in my women and children. 

But this is not the worst: one must be admitted 
into their familiarity at least, before they can com- 
plain of inattention. It implies visits, and some kind 
of intercourse. But if the husband be a man with 
whom you have lived on a friendly footing before 
marriage, — if you did not come in on the wife's side, 
— if you did not sneak into the house in her train, 
but were an old friend in fast habits of intimacy 
before their courtship was so much as thought on, — 



A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT 261 

look about you — your tenure is precarious — before a 
twelve-month shall roll over your head, you shall find 
your old friend gradually grow cool and altered to- 
wards you, and at last seek opportunities of breaking 
with you. I have scarce a married friend of my 
acquaintance, upon whose firm faith I can rely, whose 
friendship did not commence after the period of his 
marriage. With some limitations they can endure 
that: but that the good man should have dared to 
enter into a - solemn league of friendship in which 
they were not consulted, though it happened before 
they knew him, — before they that are now man and 
wife ever met, — this is intolerable to them. Every 
long friendship, every old authentic intimacy, must 
be brought into their office to be new stamped with 
their currency, as a sovereign Prince calls in the 
good old money that was coined in some reign before 
he was born or thought of, to be new marked and 
minted with the stamp of his authority, before he 
will let it pass current in the world. You may guess 
what luck generally befalls such a rusty piece of 
metal as I am in these new mintings. 

Innumerable are the ways which they take to in- 
sult and worm you out of their husband's confidence. 
Laughing at all you say with a kind of wonder, as if 
you were a queer kind of fellow that said good things, 
hut an oddity, is one of the ways; — they have a par- 
ticular kind of stare for the purpose; — till at last 
the husband, who used to defer to your judgment, 
and would pass over some excrescences of under- 



262 TEE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

standing and manner for the sake of a general vein 
of observation (not quite vulgar) which he percreived 
in you, begins to suspect whether you are not alto- 
gether a humorist, — a fellow well enough to have con- 
sorted with in his bachelor days, but not quite so 
proper to be introduced to ladies. This may be 
called the staring way ; and is that which has of tenest 
been put in practice against me. 

Then there is the exaggerating way, or the way of 
irony; that is, where they find you an object of 
especial regard with their husband, who is not so 
easily to be shaken from the lasting attachment 
founded on esteem which he has conceived towards 
you; by never-qualified exaggerations to cry up all 
that you say or do, till the good man, who under- 
stands well enough that it is all done in compliment 
to him, grows weary of the debt of gratitude which 
is due to so much candor, and by relaxing a little 
on his part, and taking down a peg or two in his 
enthusiasm, sinks at length to that kindly level of 
moderate esteem, — that "decent affection and com- 
placent kindness" towards you, where she herself 
can join in sympathy with him without much stretch 
and violence to her sincerity. 

Another way (for the ways they have to accom- 
plish so desirable a purpose are infinite) is, with a 
kind of innocent simplicity, continually to mistake 
what it was which first made their husband fond 
of you. If an esteem for something excellent in your 
moral character w^as that which riveted the chain 



A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT 263 

which she is to break, upon any imaginary discovery 
of a want of poignancy in your conversation, she will 
cry, ''I thought, my dear, you described your friend, 

Mr. as a great wit." If, on the other hand, it 

was for some supposed charm in your conversation 
that he first grew to like you, and was content for 
this to overlook some trifling irregularities in your 
moral deportment, upon the first notice of any of these 
she as readily exclaims, "This, my dear, is your good 

Mr. ." One good lady whom I took the liberty 

of expostulating with for not showing me quite so 
much respect as I thought due to her husband's old 
friend, had the candor to confess to me that she had 

often heard Mr. speak of me before marriage, 

and that she had conceived a great desire to be ac- 
quainted with me, but that the sight of me had very 
much disappointed her expectations; for from her 
husband's representations of me, she had formed a 
notion that she was to see a fine, tall, officer-like look- 
ing man (I use her very words) ; the very reverse 
of which proved to be the truth. This was candid; 
and I had the civility not to ask her in return, how 
she came to pitch upon a standard of personal ac- 
complishments for her husband's friends which dif- 
fered so much from his own; for my friend's dimen- 
sions as near as possible approximate to mine; he 
stands five feet five in his shoes, in which I have the 
advantage of him by about half an inch; and he no 
more than myself exhibiting any indications of a 
martial character in his air or countenance. 



264 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

These are some of the mortifications which I have 
encountered in the absurd attempt to visit at their 
houses. To enumerate them all would be a vain en- 
deavor; I shall therefore just glance at the very 
common impropriety of which married ladies are 
guilty, — of treating us as if we were their husbands, 
and vice versa. I mean, when they use us with fa- 
miliarity, and their husbands with ceremony. Tes- 
tacea, for instance, kept me the other night two or 
three hours beyond my usual time of supping, while 

she was fretting because Mr. did not come home, 

till the oysters were all spoiled, rather than she would 
be guilty of the impoliteness of touching one in his 
absence. This was reversing the point of good man- 
ners: for ceremony is an invention to take off the 
uneasy feeling which we derive from knowing our- 
selves to be the less the object of love and esteem 
with a fellow-creature than some other person is. 
It endeavors to make up, by superior attentions in 
little points, for that invidious preference which it is 
forced to deny in the greater. Had Testacea kept 
the oysters back for me, and withstood her hus- 
band's importunities to go to supper, she would have 
acted according to the strict rules of propriety. I 
know no ceremony that ladies are bound to observe 
to their husbands, beyond the point of a modest be- 
havior and decorum : therefore I must protest against 
the vicarious gluttony of Cerasia, who at her own 
table sent away a dish of Morel las, which I was 
applying to with great good will, to her husband 



ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS 265 

at the other end of the table, and recommended a 
plate of less extraordinary gooseberries to my un- 
wedded palate in their stead. Neither can I excuse 

the wanton affront of . 

But I am weary of stringing up all my married 
acq,uaintance by Roman denominations. Let them 
amend and change their manners, or I promise to 
record the full-length English of their names, to the 
terror of all such desperate offenders in future. 

ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS 

The casual sight of an old Play Bill, which I picked 
up the other day— I know not by what chance it was 
preserved so long — ^tempts me to call to mind a few 
of the Players, who made the principal figure in it. 
It presents the cast of parts in the Twelfth Night,^ 
at the old Drury Lane Theater two-and-thirty years 
ago. There is something very touching in these old 
remembrances. They make us think how we once 
used to read a Play Bill — not, as now peradventure, 
singling out a favorite performer, and casting a neg- 
ligent eye over the rest ; but spelling out every name, 
down to the very mutes and servants of the scene ; — 
when it was a matter of no small moment to us 
whether Whitfield, or Packer, took the part of Fabian ; 
when Benson, and Burton, and Phillimore — names of 
small account — had an importance, beyond what we 
can be content to attribute now to the time's best 
actors. — ' ' Orsino, by Mr. Barrymore. ' ' ^ — What a full 



266 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

' Shakspearian sound it carries! how fresh to memory 
arise the image, and the manner, of the gentle ac- 
tor! 

Those who have only seen Mrs. Jordan ^ within the 
last ten or fifteen years, can have no adequate notion 
of her performance of such parts as Ophelia ; Helena, 
in All's AVell that Ends Well; and Viola in this play. 
Her voice had latterly acquired a coarseness, which 
suited well enough Avith her Nells and Hoydens,^ but 
in those days it sank, with her steady melting eye, 
into the heart. Her joyous parts — in which her mem- 
ory now chiefly lives — in her youth were outdone by 
her plaintive ones. There is no giving an account 
how she delivered the disguised story of her love for 
Orsino. It was no set speech, that she had foreseen, 
so as to weave it into an harmonious period, line 
necessarily following line, to make up the music — 
yet I have heard it so spoken, or rather read, not 
without its grace and beauty — but, when she had 
declared her sister's history to be a ''blank," and 
that she "never told her love," there was a pause, as 
if the story had ended — and then the image of the 
"worm in the bud" came up as a new suggestion — 
and the heightened image of "Patience" still fol- 
lowed after that, as by some growing (and not me- 
chanical) process, thought springing up after thought, 
I would almost say, as they were watered by her 
tears. So in those fine lines — 

Write loyal cantos of contemned love — 
Hollow your name to the reverberate hills — 3 



ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS 267 

there was no preparation made in the foregoing image 
for that which was to follow. She used no rhetoric 
in her passion; or it was nature's own rhetoric, most 
legitimate then, when it seemed altogether without 
rule or law. 

Mrs. Powel (now Mrs. Renard), then in the pride 
of her beauty, made an admirable Olivia. She was 
particularly excellent in her unbending scenes in 
conversation with the Clown. I have seen some 
Olivias — and those very sensible actresses too — who 
in those interlocutions have seemed to set their wits 
at the jester, and to vie conceits with him in down- 
right emulation. But she used him for her sport, 
like what he was, to trifle a leisure sentence or two 
with, and then to be dismissed, and she to be the 
Great Lady still. She touched the imperious fan- 
tastic humor of the character with nicety. Her fine 
spacious person filled the scene. 

The part of Malvolio has in my judgment been 
so often misunderstood, and the general merits of the 
actor, who then played it, so unduly appreciated, that 
I shall hope for pardon, if I am a little prolix upon 
these points. 

Of all the actors who flourished in my time — a mel- 
ancholy phrase if taken aright, reader — Bensley ^ had 
most of the swell of soul, was greatest in the delivery 
of heroic conceptions, the emotions consequent upon 
the presentment of a great idea to the fancy. He 
had the true poetical enthusiasm — the rarest faculty 
among players. None that I remember possessed even 



268 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

a portion of that fine madness which he threw out 
in Hotspur's famous rant about giory/ or the trans- 
ports of the Venetian incendiary - at the vision of the 
fired city. His voice had the dissonance, and at times 
the inspiriting effect of the trumpet. His gait was 
uncouth and stiff, but no way embarrassed by affec- 
tation; and the thorough-bred gentleman was upper- 
most in every movement. He seized the moment of 
passion with the greatest truth; like a faithful clock, 
never striking before the time: never anticipating or 
leading you to anticipate. He was totally destitute 
of trick and artifice. He seemed come upon the stage 
to do the poet's message simply, and he did it with 
as genuine fidelity as the nuncios in Homer deliver 
the errands of the gods. He let the passion or the 
sentiment do its own Avork without prop or bolster- 
ing. He would have scorned to mountebank it; and 
betrayed none of that cleverness which is the bane 
of serious acting. For this reason, his lago was 
the only endurable one which I remember to have 
seen. No spectator from his action could divine more 
of his artifice than Othello was supposed to do. His 
confessions in soliloquy alone put you in possession 
of the mystery. There were no by-intimations to 
make the audience fancy their own discernment so 
much greater than that of the Moor — who commonly 
stands like a great helpless mark set up for mine 
Ancient, and a quantity of barren spectators, to shoot 
their bolts at. The lago of Bensley did not go to 
work so grossly. There was a triumphant tone about 



ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS^ 269 

the character, natural to a general consciousness of 
power ; but none of that petty vanity which chuckles 
and cannot contain itself upon any little successful 
stroke of its knavery — as is common with your small 
villains and green probationers in mischief. It did 
not clap or crow before its time. It was not a man 
setting his wits at a child, and winking all the while 
at other children who are mightily pleased at being 
let into the secret; but a consummate villain entrap- 
ping a noble nature into toils, against which no 
discernment was available, where the manner was as 
fathomless as the purpose seemed dark, and without 
motive. The part of Malvolio, in the Twelfth Night, 
was performed by Bensley, with a richness and a 
dignity, of which (to judge from some recent castings 
of that character) the very tradition must be worn 
out from the stage. No manager in those days would 
have dreamed of giving it to Mr. Baddeley, or Mr. 
Parsons; when Bensley was occasionally absent from 
the theater, John Kemble ^ thought it no derogation 
to succeed to the part. Malvolio is not essentially 
ludicrous. He becomes comic but by accident. He 
is cold, austere, repelling; but dignified, consistent, 
and, for what appears, rather of an over-stretched 
morality. Maria describes him as a sort of Puritan; 
and he might have worn his gold chain with honor 
in one of our old round-head families, in the service 
of a Lambert, or a Lady Fairfax. But his morality 
and his manners are misplaced in Illyria. He is 
opposed to the proper levities of the piece, and falls 



270 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

in the unequal contest. Still his pride, or his gravity, 
(call it which you will) is inherent, and native to the 
man, not mock or affected, which latter only are the 
fit objects to excite laughter. His quality is at the 
best unlovely, but neither buffoon nor contemptible. 
His bearing is lofty, a little above his station, but 
probably not much above his deserts. AVe see no 
reason why he should not hav6 been brave, honorable, 
accomplished. His careless committal of the ring to 
the ground (which he was commissioned to restore 
to Cesario), bespeaks a generosity of birth and feel- 
ing. His dialect on all occasions is that of a gentle- 
man, and a man of education. We must not con- 
found him with the eternal old, low steward of 
comedy. He is master of the household to a great 
Princess; a dignity probably conferred upon him for 
other respects than age or length of service. Olivia, 
at the first indication of his supposed madness, de- 
clares that she "would not have him miscarry for 
half of her dowry."- Does this look as if the char- 
acter was meant to appear little or insignificant? 
Once, indeed, she accuses him to his face — of what? 
— of being "sick of self-love," — but with a gentleness 
and considerateness which could not have been, if 
she had not thought that this particular infirmity 
shaded some virtues. His rebuke to the knight, and 
his sottish revelers, is sensible and spirited; and 
when we take into consideration the unprotected 
condition of his mistress, and the strict regard with 
which her state of real or dissembled mourning would 



ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS 271 

draw the eyes of the world upon her house-affairs, 
Malvolio might feel the honor of the family in some 
sort in his keeping; as it appears not that Olivia 
had any more brothers, or kinsmen, to look to it — 
for Sir Toby had dropped all such nice respects at 
the buttery hatch. That Malvolio was meant to be 
represented as possessing estimable qualities, the ex- 
pression of the Duke in his anxiety to have him recon- 
ciled, almost infers. "Pursue him, and entreat him 
to a peace." Even in his abused state of chains and 
darkness, a sort of greatness seems never to desert 
him. He argues highly and well with the supposed 
Sir Topas, and philosophizes gallantly upon his 
straw.* There must have been some shadow of worth 
about the man; he must have been something more 
than a mere vapor — a thing of straw, or Jack in office 
— before Fabian and Maria could have ventured send- 
ing him upon a courting-errand to Olivia. There 
was some consonancy (as he would say) in the under- 
taking, or the jest would have been too bold even for 
that house of misrule. 

Bensley, accordingly, threw over the part an air 
of Spanish loftiness. He looked, spake, and moved 
like an old Castilian.^ He was starch, spruce, opin- 
ionated, but his superstructure of pride seemed bot- 

* Clotcn. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning 
wild fowl? 

Mai. That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit 
a bird. 

Gloicn. What tliinkest thou of his opinion? 

Mai. I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve of his 
opinion. 



272 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

tomecl upon a sense of worth. There was something 
in it beyond the coxcomb. It was big and swelling, 
but you could not be sure that it was hollow. You 
might wish to see it taken down, but you felt that it 
was upon an elevation. He was magnificent from the 
outset ; but when the decent sobrieties of the character 
began to give way, and the poison of self-love, in his 
conceit of the Countess's affection, gradually to work, 
you would have thought that the hero of La Mancha ^ 
in person stood before you. How he went smiling 
to himself! with what ineffable carelessness would 
he twirl his gold chain ! what a dream it was ! you 
were infected with the illusion, and did not wish that 
it should be removed ! you had no room for laughter ! 
if an unseasonable reflection of morality obtruded 
itself, it was a deep sense of the pitiable infirmity of 
man's nature, that can lay him open to such frenzies 
— but in truth you rather admired than pitied the 
lunacy while it lasted — you felt that an hour of such 
mistake was worth an age with the eyes open. Who 
would not wish to live but for a day in the conceit 
of such a lady's love as Olivia? Why, the Duke 
would have given his principality but for a quarter 
of a minute, sleeping or waking, to have been so 
deluded. The man seemed to tread upon air, to 
taste manna, to walk with his head in the clouds, to 
mate Hyperion.^ ! shake not the castles of his pride 
— endure yet for a season bright moments of confi- 
dence — "stand still ye watches of the element," that 
Malvolio may be sLill in fancy fair Olivia's lord — 



ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS 273 

but fate and retribution say no — I hear the mischiev- 
ous titter of Maria — the witty taunts of Sir Toby — 
the still more insupportable triumph of the fooHsh 
knight — the counterfeit Sir Topas is unmasked — and 
"thus the whirligig of time," as the true clown hath 
it, ''brings in his revenges." I confess that I never 
saw the catastrophe of this character, while Bensley 
played it, without a kind of tragic interest. There 
was good foolery too. Few now remember Dodd.^ 
What an Aguecheek the stage lost in him! Love- 
grove, who came nearest to the old actors, revived 
the character some few seasons ago, and made it suffi- 
ciently grotesque; but Dodd was it, as it came out 
of nature's hands. It might be said to remain in 
puris natiiralihiis? In expressing slowness of appre- 
hension this actor surpassed all others. You could 
see the first dawn of an idea stealing slowly over 
his countenance, climbing up by little and little, with 
a painful process, till it cleared up at last to the ful- 
ness of a twilight conception — its highest meridian. 
He seemed to keep back his intellect, as some have 
had the power to retard their pulsation. The balloon 
takes less time in filling, than it took to cover the 
expansion of his broad moony face over all its quar- 
ters with expression. A glimmer of understanding 
would appear in a comer of his eye, and for lack of 
fuel go out again. A part of his forehead would 
catch a little intelligence, and be a long time in com- 
municating it to the remainder. 

I am ill at dates, but I think it is now better than 



274 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

five and twenty years ago that walking in the gardens 
of Gray's Inn — they were then far finer than they 
are now — the accursed Verulam Buildings had not 
encroached upon all the east side of them, cutting out 
delicate green crankles, and shouldering away one 
or two of the stately alcoves of the terrace — the sur- 
vivor stands gaping and relationless as if it remem- 
bered its brother — they are still the best gardens of 
any of the Inns of Court, my beloved Temple not 
forgotten — have the gravest character, their aspect 
being altogether reverend and law breathing — Bacon ^ 
has left the impress of his foot upon their gravel 

walks taking my afternoon solace on a summer 

day upon the aforesaid terrace, a comely, sad per- 
sonage came towards me, whom, from his grave air 
and deportment, I judged to be one of the old Bench- 
ers of the Inn. He had a serious thoughtful fore- 
head, and seemed to be in meditations of mortality. 
As I have an instinctive awe of old Benchers, I was 
passing him with that sort of subindicative token of 
respect which one is apt to demonstrate towards a 
venerable stranger, and which rather denotes an in- 
clination to greet him, than any positive motion of 
the body to that effect — a species of humility and 
will-worship which I observe, nine times out of ten, 
rather puzzles than pleases the person it is offered 
to — when the face turning full upon me strangely 
identified itself with that of Dodd. Upon close in- 
spection I was not mistaken. But could this sad, 
thoughtful countenance be the same vacant face of 



ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS 275 

folly which I had hailed so often -under circumstances 
of gayety; which I had never seen without a smile, 
or recognized but as the usher of mirth; that looked 
out so formally flat in Foppington, so frothily pert 
in Tattle, so impotently busy in Backbite ; so blankly 
divested of all meaning, or resolutely expressive of 
none, in Acres, in Fribble,^ and a thousand agreeable 
impertinences ? Was this the face — full of thought 
and carefulness — that had so often divested itself 
at will of every trace of either to give me diversion, 
to clear my cloudy face for two or three hours at 
least of its furrows? Was this the face — manly, 
sober, intelligent, — which I had so often despised, 
made mocks at, made merry with ? The remembrance 
of the freedoms which I had taken with it came upon 
me with a reproach of insult. I could have asked 
it pardon. I thought it looked upon me with a sense 
of injury. There is something strange as well as sad 
in seeing actors — your pleasant fellows particularly — ■ 
subjected to and suffering the common lot — their for- 
tunes, their casualties, their deaths, seem to belong 
to the scene, their actions to be amenable to poetic 
justice only. We can hardly connect them with more 
awful responsibilities. The death of this fine actor 
took place shortly after this meeting. He had quitted 
the stage some months ; and, as I learned afterwards, 
had been in the habit of resorting daily to these 
gardens almost to the day of his decease. In these 
serious walks probably he was divesting himself of 
many scenic and some real vanities — weaning himself 



276 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

from the frivolities ef the lesser and the greater thea- 
ter — doing gentle penance for a life of no very rep- 
rehensible fooleries, — taking off by degrees the buf- 
foon mask which he might feel he had worn too long 
— and rehearsing for a more solemn cast of part. 
Dying he ''put on the weeds of Dominic."^* 

If few can remember Dodd, many yet living will 
not easily forget the pleasant creature, who in those 
days enacted the part of the Clown to Dodd's Sir 
Andrew. — Richard, or rather Dicky Suett — for so in 
his life-time he delighted to be called, and time hath 
ratified the appellation — lieth buried on the north 
side of the cemetery of Holy Paul, to whose service 
his nonage and tender years were dedicated. There 
are who do yet remember him at that period — ^his pipe 
clear and harmonious. He would often speak of his 
chorister days, when he was "cherub Dicky." 

What clipped his wings, or made it expedient that 
he should exchange the holy for the profane state; 
whether he had lost his good voice (his best recom- 
mendation to that office), like Sir John,^ "with hal- 
looing and singing of anthems;" or whether he was 

* Dodd was a man of reading, and left at his death a choice 
collection of old English literature. 1 should judge him to 
have been a man of wit. I know one instance of an im- 
promptu which no length of study could have bettered. My 
merry friend, Jem White, had seen him one evening in Auge- 
cheek, and recognizing Dodd the next day in Fleet Street, was 
irresistibly impelled to take off his hat and salute him as the 
identical Knight of the preceding evening with a " Save you, 
Si)' Andrcio.'" Dodd, not at all disconcerted at this unusual 
address from a stranger, with a courteous half-rebuking wave 
of the hand, put him off with an "Away, Fool." 



ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS 277 

adjudged to lack something, even in those early years, 
of the gravity indispensable to an occupation which 
professeth to "commerce with the skies" — I could 
never rightly learn ; but we find him, after the proba- 
tion of a twelvemonth or so, reverting to a secular 
condition, and become one of us. 

I think he was not altogether of that timber, out 
of which cathedral seats and sounding boards are 
hewed. But if a glad heart — kind and therefore glad 
— be any part of sanctity, then might the robe of 
Motley, with which he invested himself with so much 
humility after his deprivation, and which he wore so 
long V\^ith so much blameless satisfaction to himself 
and to the public, be accepted for a surplice — his 
white stole, and alhe. 

The first fruits of his secularization was an en- 
gagement upon the boards of Old Drury, at which 
theater he commenced, as I have been told, with 
adopting the manner of Parsons in old men's char- 
acters. At the period in which most of us knew him, 
lie was no more an imitator than he was in any true 
sense himself imitable. 

He was the Robin Good-Fellow ^ of the stage. He 
came in to trouble all things with a welcome per- 
plexity, himself, no whit troubled for the matter. 
He was known, like Puck,^ by his note — Ha! Ha! Ha! 
— sometimes deepening to Ho! Ho! Ho! with an irre- 
sistible accession, derived perhaps remotely from his 
ecclesiastical education, foreign to his prototype of, 
— La ! Thousands of hearts yet respond to the 



278 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

chuckling La! of Dicky Suett, brought back to their 
remembrance by the faithful transcript of his friend 
Mathews's mimicry. The ''force of nature could no 
further go. " ^ He drolled upon the stock of these 
two syllables richer than the cuckoo. 

Care, that troubles all the world, was forgotten 
in his composition. Had he had but two grains (nay, 
half a grain) of it, he could never have supported 
himself upon those two spider's strings, which served 
him (in the latter part of his unmixed existence) as 
legs. A doubt or a scruple must have made him 
totter, a sigh have puffed him down : the weight of a 
frown had staggered him, a wrinkle made him lose 
his balance. But on he went, scrambling upon those 
airy stilts of his, with Robin Good-Fellow, ''thorough 
brake, thorough briar, ' ' ^ reckless of a scratched face 
or a torn doublet. 

Shakespeare foresaw him, when he framed his fools 
and jesters. They have all the true Suett stamp, a 
loose and shambling gait, a slippery tongue, this last 
the ready midwife to a without-pain-delivered jest; 
in words, light as air, venting truths deep as the cen- 
ter; with idlest rhymes tagging conceit when busiest, 
singing with Lear in the tempest, or Sir Toby at the 
buttery-hatch. 

Jack Bannister ^ and he had the fortune to be more 
of personal favorites with the town than any actors 
before or after. The difference, I take it, was this : — 
Jack was more beloved for his sweet, good-natured 



ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS 279 

moral pretentions. Dicky was more liked for his sweet 
good-natured, no pretensions at all. Your whole con- 
science stirred with Bannister's performance of Wal- 
ter in the Children in the Wood ^— but Dicky seemed 
like a thing, as Shakespeare says of Love, too young 
to know what conscience is. He puts us into Vesta's 
days.2 Evil fled before him— not as from Jack, as 
from an antagonist, — but because it could not touch 
him, any more than a cannon-ball a fly. He was deliv- 
ered from the burthen of that death ; and, when Death 
came himself, not in metaphor, to fetch Dicky, it is 
recorded of him by Robert Palmer, who kindly 
watched his exit, that he received the last stroke, 
neither varying his accustomed tranquillity, nor tune, 
with the simple exclamation, worthy to have been 
recorded in his epitaph — La! La! Bolhy! 

The elder Palmer ^ (of stage-treading celebrity) 
commonly played Sir Toby in those days; but there 
is a solidity of wit in the jests of that half-Falstaff 
which he did not quite fill out. He was as much too 
showy as Moody (who sometimes took the part) was 
dry and sottish. In sock or buskin there was an air 
of swaggering gentility about Jack Palmer. He was 
a g&ntleman with a slight infusion of the footman. 
His brother Bob (of recenter memory) who was his 
"shadow in everything while he lived, and dwindled 
into less than a shadow afterwards— was a gentleman 
with a little stronger infusion of the latter ingredient; 
that was all. It is amazing how a little of the more 



280 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

or less makes a difference in these things. When you 
saw Bobby in the Duke 's Servant,^ * you said, what a 
pity such a pretty fellow was only a servant. When 
you saw Jack figuring in Captain Absolute,^ you 
thought you could trace his promotion to some lady 
of quality who fancied the handsome fellow in his 
topknot, and had bought him a commission. There- 
fore Jack in Dick Amulet ^ was insuperable. 

Jack had two voices — both plausible, hypocritical, 
and insinuating; but his secondary or supplemental 
voice still more decisively histrionic than his com- 
mon one. It was reserved for the spectator; and 
the dramatis personw were supposed to know noth- 
ing at all about it. The lies of young Wilding,* and 
the sentiments in Joseph Surface,^ were thus marked 
out in a sort of italics to the audience. This secret 
correspondence with the company before the curtain 
(which is the bane and death of tragedy) has an 
extremely happy effect in some kinds of comedy, in 
the more highly artificial comedy of Congreve or of 
Sheridan especially, where the absolute sense of real- 
ity (so indispensable to scenes of interest) is not re- 
quired, or would rather interfere ' to diminish your 
pleasure. The fact is, you do not believe in such 
characters as Surface — ^the villain of artificial comedy 
— even while you read or see them. If you did, they 
would shock and not divert you. When Ben, in Love 
for Love, returns from sea, the following exquisite 
dialogue occurs at his first meeting with his father — 

* Hi^li Life Below Stairs. 



ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS 281 

Sir Sampson. Tliou hast been many a weary league, Ben, 
since I saw thee. 

Ben. Ey, ey, been! Been far enough, an that be all. — 
Well, father, and. how do all at home? how does brother Dick, 
and brother Val ? 

Sir Sampson. Dick! body o' me, Dick has been dead these 
two years. I writ you word when you were at Leghorn. 

Ben. Mess, that's true; Marry, I had forgot. Dick's dead, 
as you say — Well, and how ? — I have a many questions to 
ask you — i 

Here is an instance of insensibility which in real 
life would be revolting, or rather in real life could 
not have co-existed with the warm-hearted tempera- 
ment of the character. But when you read it in the 
spirit with which such playful selections and specious 
combinations rather than strict metaphrases of nature 
it should be taken, or when you saw Bannister play it, 
neither did, nor does wound the moral sense at all. 
For what is Ben — the pleasant sailor which Ban- 
nister gives us — but a. piece of satire — a creation of 
Congreve's fancy — a dreamy combination of all the 
accidents of a sailor's character — his contempt of 
money — his credulity to women — with that necessary 
estrangement from home which it is just within the 
verge of credibility to suppose might produce such 
an hallucination as is here described. We never think 
the worse of Ben for it, or feel it as a stain upon 
his character. But when an actor comes, and in- 
stead of the delightful phantom — the creature dear 
to half-belief^which Bannister exhibited — displays 
before our eyes a downright concretion of a Wapping 



282 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

sailor ^ — a jolly warm-hearted Jack Tar — and nothing 
else — when instead of investing it with a delicious 
confusedness of the head, and a veering undirected 
goodness of purpose — he gives to it a downright 
daylight understanding, and a full consciousness of 
its actions; thrusting forward the sensibilities of the 
character with a pretense as if it stood upon nothing 
else, and was to be judged by them alone — we feel 
the discord of the thing: the scene is disturbed; a 
real man has got in among the dramatis personse, 
and puts them out. We want the sailor turned out. 
We feel that his true place is not behind the curtain 
but in the first or second gallery. 

ON THE ARTIFICIAL COMEDY OF THE 
LAST CENTURY 

The artificial Comedy, or Comedy of manners, is 
quite extinct on our stage. Congreve and Farquhar ^ 
show their heads once in seven years only, to be ex- 
ploded and put down instantly. The times cannot 
bear them. Is it for a few wild speeches, an oc- 
casional license of dialogue? I think not altogether. 
The business of their dramatic characters will not 
stand the moral test. We screw everything up to 
that. Idle gallantry in a fiction, a dream, the passing 
pageant of an evening, startles us in the same way 
as the alarming indications of profligacy in a son or 
ward in real life should startle a parent or guardian. 
We have no such middle emotions as dramatic in- 



COMEDY OF LAST CENTURY 283 

terests left. We see a stage libertine playing his 
loose pranks of two hours' duration, and of no after 
consequence, with the severe eyes which inspect real 
vices with their bearings upon two worlds. We are 
spectators to a plot or intrigue (not reducible in life 
to the point of strict morality) and take it all for 
truth. We substitute a real for a dramatic person, 
and judge him accordingly. We try him in our 
courts, from which there is no appeal to the dramatis 
personce, his peers. We have been spoiled with — 
not sentimental comedy — but a tyrant far more per- 
nicious to our pleasures which has succeeded to it, 
the exclusive and all devouring drama of common 
life; where the moral point is everything; where, 
instead of the fictitious half-believed personages of 
the stage (the phantoms of old comedy) we recognize 
ourselves, our brothers, aunts, kinsfolk, allies, pa- 
trons, enemies, — the same as in life, — with an interest 
in what is going on so hearty and substantial, that 
we cannot afford our moral judgment, in its deepest 
and most vital results, to compromise or slumber for 
a moment. What is there transacting, by no modi- 
fication is made to affect us in any other manner than 
the same events or characters would do in our re- 
lationships of life. We carry our fire-side concerns 
to the theater with us. We do not go thither, like 
our ancestors, to escape from the pressure of reality, 
so much as to confirm our experience of it; to make 
assurance double, and take a bond of fate. We must 
live our toilsome lives twice over, as it was the mourn- 



284 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

ful privilege of Ulysses to descend twice to the 
shades.^ All that neutral ground of character, which 
stood between vice and virtue ; or which in fact was 
indifferent to neither, where neither properly was 
called in question ; that happy breathing-place from 
the burthen of a perpetual moral questioning — the 
sanctuary and quiet Alsatia ^ of hunted casuistry — is 
broken up and disfranchised, as injurious to the in- 
terests of society. The privileges of the place are 
taken away by law. We dare not dally with images, 
or names, of wrong. We bark like foolish dogs at 
shadows. We dread infection from the scenic rep- 
resentation of disorder; and fear a painted pustule. 
In our anxiety that our morality should not take cold, 
we wrap it up in a great blanket surtout of precau- 
tion against the breeze and sunshine. 

I confess for myself that (with no great delin- 
quencies to answer for) I am glad for a season to 
take an airing beyond the diocese of the strict con- 
science, — not to live always in the precincts of the 
law-courts — but now and then, for a dream-w^hile or 
so, to imagine a world with no meddling restrictions — 
to get into recesses, whither the hunter cannot fol- 
low me — 

Secret shades 



Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 

While yet there was no fear of Jove — 

I come back to my cage and my restraint the fresher 
and more healthy for it. I wear my shackles more 



COMEDY OF LAST CENTURY . 28f) 

contentedly for having respired the breath of an 
imaginary freedom. I do not know how it is with 
others, but I feel the better always for the perusal 
of one of Congreve's — nay, why should I not add 
even of Wycherley's — comedies.^ I am the gayer at 
least for it; and I could never connect those sports 
of a witty fancy in any shape with any result to be 
drawn from them to imitation in real life. They 
are a world of themselves almost as much as fairy 
land. Take one of their characters, male or female 
(with few exceptions they are alike), and place it 
in a modern play, and my virtuous indignation shall 
rise against the profligate wretch as warmly as the 
Catos of the pit- could desire; because in a modern 
play I am to judge of the right and the wrong. The 
standard of police is the measure of political justice. 
The atmosphere will blight it, it cannot live here. 
It has got into a moral world, where it has no business, 
from which it must needs fall headlong; as dizzy, 
and incapable of making a stand, as a Swedenborgian^ 
bad spirit that has wandered unawares into the sphere 
of one of his Good Men or Angels. But in its own 
world do we feel the creature is so very bad? — The 
Fainalls and the Mirabels, the Dorimants and the 
Lady Touchwoods,* in their own sphere, do not offend 
my moral sense; in fact they do not appeal to it at 
all. They seem engaged in their proper element. 
They break through no laws, or conscious restraints. 
They know of none. They have got out of Christen- 
dom into the land— what shall I call it?— of cuck- 



286 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

oldry — the Utopia of gallantry, where pleasure is 
duty, and the manners perfect freedom. It is alto- 
gether a speculative scene of things, which, has no 
reference whatever to the world that is. No good 
person can be justly offended as a spectator, because 
no good person suffers on the stage. Judged morally, 
every character in these plays — the few exceptions 
only are mistakes — is alike essentially vain and worth- 
less. The great art of Congreve is especially shown 
in this, that he has entirely excluded from his scenes, 
— some little generosities on the part of Angelica per- 
haps excepted, — not only anything like a faultless 
character, but any pretensions to goodness or good 
feelings whatsoever. Whether he did this designedly, 
or instinctively, the effect is as happy, as the design 
(if design) was bold. I used to wonder at the strange 
power which his Way of the World in particular 
possesses of interesting you all along in the pursuits 
of characters, for whom you absolutely care nothing — 
for you neither hate nor love his personages — and I 
think it is owing to this very indifference for any, 
that you endure the whole. He has spread a priva- 
tion of moral light, I will call it, rather than by the 
ugly name of palpable darkness, over his creations; 
and his shadows flit before you without distinction or 
preference. Had he introduced a good character, a 
single gush of moral feeling, a revulsion of the judg- 
ment to actual life and actual duties, the imperti- 
nent Goshen would have only lighted to the discovery 



COMEDY OF LAST CENTURY 287 

of deformities, which now are none, because we think 
them none. 

Translated into real life, the characters of his, and 
his friend Wycherley's dramas, are profligates and 
strumpets, — the business of their brief existence, the 
undivided pursuit of lawless gallantry. No other 
spring of action, or possible motive of conduct, is 
recognized; principles which, universally acted upon, 
must reduce this frame of things to a chaos. But 
we do them wrong in so translating them. No such 
effects are produced in their world. When we are 
among them, we are amongst a chaotic people. We 
are not to judge them by our usages. No reverend in- 
stitutions are insulted by their proceedings, — for they 
have none among them. No peace of families is vio- 
lated, — for no family ties exist among them. No 
purity of the marriage bed is stained, — for none is sup- 
posed to have a being. No deep affections are dis- 
quieted, — no holy wedlock bands are snapped asunder, 
— for affection's depth and wedded faith are not of 
the growth of that soil. There is neither right nor 
wrong, — gratitude or its opposite, — claim or duty, — 
paternity or sonship. Of what consequences is it to 
virtue, or how is she at all concerned about it, whether 
Sir Simon, or Dapperwit, steal away Miss Martha ; or 
who is the father of Lord Froth 's, or Sir Paul Pliant 's 
children.^ 

The whole is a passing pageant, where we should 
sit as unconcerned at the issues, for life or death, as 



288 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

at a battle of the frogs and mice. But, like Don 
Quixote,^ we take part against the puppets, and quite 
as impertinently. We dare not contemplate an At- 
lantis,^ a scheme, out of which our coxcombical moral 
sense is for a little transitory ease excluded. We 
have not the courage to imagine a state of things for 
which there is neither reward nor punishment. We 
cling to the painful necessities of shame and blame. 
We would indict our very dreams. 

Amidst the mortifying circumstances attendant 
upon growing old, it is something to have seen the 
School for Scandal ^ in its glory. This comedy grew 
out of Congreve and Wycherley, but gathered some 
allays of the sentimental comedy which ifollowed 
theirs. It is impossible that it should be now acted, 
though it continues, at long intervals, to be announced 
in the bills. Its hero, when Palmer played it at least, 
was Joseph Surface. When I remember the gay bold- 
ness, the graceful solemn plausibility, the measured 
step, the insinuating voice — to express it in a word — 
the downright acted villany of the part, so different 
from the pressure of conscious actual wickedness, — the 
hypercritical assumption of hypocrisy, — which made 
Jack so deservedly a favorite in that character, I 
must needs conclude the present generation of play- 
goers more virtuous than myself, or more dense. I 
freely confess that he divided the palm with me with 
his better brother; that, in fact, I liked him quite as 
well. Not but there are passages, — like that, for in- 
stance, where Joseph is made to refuse a pittance to 



COMEDY OF LAST CENTURY 289 

a poor relation — incongruities which Sheridan was 
forced upon by the attempt to join the artificial with 
the sentimental comedy, either of which must destroy 
the other — but over these obstructions Jack's man- 
ner floated him so lightly, that a refusal from him no 
more shocked you, than the easy compliance of 
Charles gave you in reality any pleasure; you got 
over the paltry question as quickly as you could, to get 
back into the regions of pure comedy, where no cold 
moral reigns. The highly artificial manner of Palmer, 
in this character counteracted every disagreeable im- 
pression which you might have received from the con- 
trast, supposing them real, between the two brothers. 
You did not believe in Joseph with the same faith 
with which you believed in Charles. The latter was a 
pleasant reality, the former a no less pleasant poet- 
ical foil to it. The comedy, I have said, is incongru- 
ous; a mixture of Congreve with sentimental incom- 
patibilities ; the gayety upon the whole is buoyant ; but 
it required the consummate art of Palmer to reconcile 
the discordant elements. 

A player with Jack's talents, if we had one now, 
would not dare to do the part in the same manner. 
He would instinctively avoid every turn which might 
tend to unrealize, and so to make the character fas- 
cinating. He must take his cue from his spectators, 
who would expect a bad man and a good man as 
rigidly opposed to each other as the death-beds of 
those geniuses are contrasted in the prints, which I 
am sorry to say have disappeared from the windows 



290 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

of my old friend Carrington Bowles, of St. Paul's 
Church-yard memory — (an exhibition as venerable as 
the adjacent cathedral, and almost coeval) of the bad 
and good man at the hour of death ; where the ghastly 
apprehensions of the former, — and truly the grim 
phantom with his reality of a toasting fork is not to 
be despised, — so finely contrast with the meek com- 
placent kissing of the rod, — taking it in like honey 
and butter, — with which the latter submits to the 
scythe of the gentler bleeder. Time, who wields his 
lancet with the apprehensive finger of a popular 
young ladies' surgeon. What flesh, like loving grass, 
would not covet to meet half-way the stroke of such 
a delicate mower? — John Palmer was twice an actor 
in this exquisite part. He was playing to you all 
the while that he was playing upon Sir Peter and his 
lady. You had the first intimation of a sentiment 
before it was on his lips. His altered voice was meant 
to you, and you were to suppose that his fictitious co- 
flutterers on the stage perceived nothing at all of it. 
What was it to you if that half-reality, the husband, 
was over reached by the puppetry — or the thin thing 
(Lady Teazle's reputation) was persuaded it was 
dying of a plethory? The fortunes of Othello and 
Desdemona were not concerned in it. Poor Jack has 
passed from the stage in good time, that he did not 
live to this our age of seriousness. The pleasant old 
Teazle King,^ too, is gone in good time. His manner 
would scarce have past current in our day. We must 
love or hate — acquit or condemn — censure or pity — 



COMEDY OF LAST CENTURY 291 

exert our detestable coxcombry of moral judgment 
upon everything. Joseph Surface, to go down now, 
must be a downright revolting villain— no compro- 
mise — his first appearance must shock and give hor- 
rors—his specious plausibilities, which the pleasurable 
faculties of our fathers welcomed with such hearty 
greetings, knowing that no harm (dramatic harm 
even) could come, or was meant to come of them, 
must inspire a cold and killing aversion. Charles 
(the real canting person of the scene — for the hypoc- 
risy of Joseph has its ulterior legitimate ends, but 
his brother's professions of good heart, center in 
downright self-satisfaction) must be loved, and 
Joseph hated. To balance one disagreeable reality 
with another, Sir Peter Teazle must be no longer the 
comic idea of a fretful old bachelor bridegroom, whose 
teasings (while King acted it) were evidently as 
much played off at you, as they were meant to con- 
cern any body on the stage, — he must be a real per- 
son, capable in law of sustaining an injury — a person 
towards whom duties are to be acknowledged — the 
genuine crim-con antagonist of the villanous seducer 
Joseph. To realize him more, his sufferings under 
his unfortunate match must have the downright pun- 
gency of life — must (or should) make you not mirth- 
ful but uncomfortable, just as the same predicament 
would move you in a neighbor or old friend. The 
delicious scenes which give the play its name and 
zest, must affect you in the same serious manner as 
if you heard the reputation of a dear female friend 



292 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

attacked in your real presence. Crabtree, and Sir 
Benjamin — those poor snakes that live but in the sun- 
shine of your mirth — must be ripened by this hot-bed 
process of realization into asps or amphisba3nas ; and 
Mrs. Candor — ! frightful ! become a hooded serpent. 
Oh! who that remembers Parsons and Dodd — the 
wasp and butterfly of the School for Scandal — in 
those two characters; and charming natural Miss 
Pope, the perfect gentlewoman as distinguished from 
the fine lady of comedy, in this latter part— would 
forego the true scenic delight — the escape from life — 
the oblivion of consequences — ^the holiday barring- 
out of the pedant Reflection — those Saturnalia ^ of 
two or three brief hours, well won from the world — 
to sit instead at one of our modern plays — to have 
his coward conscience (that forsooth must not be left 
for a moment) stimulated with perpetual appeals — 
dulled rather, and blunted, as a faculty without re- 
pose must be — and his moral vanity pampered with 
images of notional justice, notional beneficences, lives 
saved without the spectators' risk, and fortunes given 
away that cost the author nothing? 

No piece was, perhaps, ever so completely cast in 
all its parts as this manager's comedy. Miss Farren 
had succeeded to Mrs. Abingdon in Lady Teazle ; and 
Smith, the original Charles, had retired when I first 
saw it. The rest of the characters, with vejy slight 
exceptions, remained. I remember it was then the 
fashion to cry down John Kemble, who took the part 
of Charles after Smith; but I thought, very unjustly. 



COMEDY OF LAST CENTURY 293 

Smith, I fancy, was more airy, and took the eye with 
a certain gayety of person. He brought with him no 
somber recollections of tragedy. He had not to ex- 
piate the fault of having pleased beforehand in lofty 
declamation. He had no sins of Hamlet or of Rich- 
ard to atone for. His failure in these parts was a 
passport to success in one of so opposite a tendency. 
But, as far as I could judge, the weighty sense of 
Kemble made up for more personal incapacity than he 
had to answer for. His harshest tones in this part 
came steeped and dulcified in good humor. He made 
his defects a grace. His exact declamatory manner, 
as he managed it, only served to convey the points of 
his dialogue with more precision. It seemed to head 
the shafts to carry them deeper. Not one of his 
sparkling sentences was lost. I remember minutely 
how he delivered each in succession, and cannot by 
any effort imagine how any of them could be altered 
for the better. No man could deliver brilliant dialogue 
— the dialogue of Congreve or Wycherley — because 
none understood it — half so well as John Kemble. 
His Valentine, in Love for Love, was, to my recollec- 
tion, faultless. He flagged sometimes in the intervals 
of tragic passion. He would slumber over the level 
parts of an heroic character. His Ma.cbeth has been 
known to nod. But he always seemed to me to be 
particularly alive to pointed and witty dialogue. The 
relaxing levities of tragedy have not been touched by 
any since him — the playful court-bred spirit in which 
he condescended to the players in Hamlet — the sport- 



294 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

ive relief which he threw into the darker shades of 
Richard — disappeared with him. He had his slug- 
gish moods, his torpors — but they were the halting- 
stones and resting-places of his tragedy — politic sav- 
ings, and fetches of the breath — husbandry of the 
lungs, where nature pointed him to be an economist — 
rather, I think, than errors of the judgment. They 
were, at worst, less painful than the eternal torment- 
ing unappeasable vigilance, the ' ' lidless dragon eyes, ' ' 
of present fashionable tragedy. 



ON THE ACTING OF IMUNDEN 

Not many nights ago I had come home from seeing 
this extraordinary performer in Cockletop f and when 
I retired to my pillow, his whimsical image still stuck 
by me, in a manner as to threaten sleep. In vain I 
tried to divest myself of it, by conjuring up the most 
opposite associations. I resolved to be serious. I 
raised up the gravest topics of life; private misery, 
public calamity. All would not do. 

— ■ There the antic sate 



Mocking our state — 3 

his queer visnomy — his bewildering costume — all the 
strange things which he had raked together — ^his 
serpentine rod, swagging about in his pocket — Cleo- 
patra's tear, and the rest of his relics — O'Keefe's 
wild farce, and his wilder commentary — till the pas- 
sion of laughter, like grief in excess, relieved itself 



ON THE ACTING OF MUNDEN 295 

by its own weight, inviting the sleep which in the first 
instance it had driven away. 

But I was not to escape so easily. No sooner did 
I fall into slumbers, than the same image, only more 
perplexing, assailed me in the shape of dreams. Not 
one Munden, but five hundred, were dancing before 
me, like the faces which, whether you will or no, come 
when you have been taking opium — all the strange 
combinations, which this strangest of all strange 
mortals ever shot his proper countenance into, from 
the day he came commissioned to dry up the tears of 
the town for the loss of the now almost forgotten Ed- 
win. for the power of the pencil to have fixed them 
when I awoke ! A season or two since there was ex- 
hibited a Hogarth gallery. I do not see why there 
should not be a Munden gallery. In richness and 
variety the latter would not fall far short of the 
former. 

There is one face of Farley,^ one face of Knight, 
one (but what a one it is!) of Liston; ^ but Munden 
has none that you can properly pin down, and call 
his. When you think he has exhausted his battery 
of looks, in unaccountable warfare with your gravity, 
suddenly he sprouts out an entirely new set of fea- 
tures, like Hydra.^ He is not one, but legion. Not 
so much a comedian, as a company. If his name 
could be multiplied like his countenance, it might 
fill a play-bill. He, and he alone, literally makes 
faces: applied to any other person, the phrase is a 
mere figure, denoting certain modifications, of the 



296 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

human countenance. Out of some invisible wardrobe 
he dips for faces, as his friend Suett used for wigs, 
and fetches them out as easily. I should not be sur- 
prised to see him some day put out the head of a 
river horse ; or come forth a pewitt, or lapwing, some 
feathered metamorphosis. 

I have seen this gifted actor in Sir Christopher 
Curry — in Old Dornton — diffuse a glow of sentiment 
which has made the pulse of a crowded theater beat 
like that of one man ; when he has come in aid of the 
pulpit, doing good to the moral heart of a people. I 
have seen some faint approaches to this sort of ex- 
cellence in other players. But in the grand grotesque 
of farce, Munden stands out as single and unaccom- 
panied as Hogarth. Hogarth, strange to tell, had no 
followers. The school of Munden began and must 
end with himself. 

Can any man wonder, like him? can any man see 
gliosis, like him? or fight with his own shadow — 
' ' SESSA ' ' ^ — as he does in that strangely-neglected 
thing, the Cobbler of Preston — where his alternations 
from the Cobbler to the Magnifico, and from the 
Magnifico to the Cobbler, keep the brain of the spec- 
tator in as wild a ferment, as if some Arabian Night 
were being acted before him. Who like him can 
throw, or ever attempted to throw, a preternatural in- 
terest over the commonest daily-life objects. A table, 
or a joint stool, in his conception, rises into dignity 
equivalent to Cassiopeia's chair.^ It is invested with 
constellatory importance. You could not speak of it 



ON THE ACTING OF MUNDEN 297 

with more deference, if it were mounted into the firm- 
ament. A beggar in the hands of Michael Angelo, 
says Fuseli/ rose the Patriarch of Poverty. So the 
gusto of Munden antiquates and ennobles what it 
touches. His pots and his ladles are as grand and 
primal as the seething-pots and hooks seen in old 
prophetic vision. A tub of butter, contemplated by 
him, amounts to a Platonic idea. He understands a 
leg of mutton in its quiddity. He stands wondering, 
amid the common-place materials of life, like pri- 
meval man with the sun and stars about him. 



LAST ESSAYS OF ELIA 



299 



PREFACE 

BY A FRIEND OF THE LATE ELIA 

This poor gentleman, who for some months past had 
been in a declining way, hath at length paid his final 
tribute to nature. 

To say truth, it is time he were gone. The humor 
of the thing, if there ever was much in it, was pretty 
well exhausted; and a two years' and a half exist- 
ence has been a tolerable duration for a phantom. 

I am now at liberty to confess, that much which I 
have heard objected to my late friend's writings was 
well-founded. Crude they are, I grant you — a sort 
of unlicked, incondite things — villainously pranked 
in an affected array of antique modes and phrases. 
They had not been his, if they had been other than 
such ; and better it is, that a writer should be natural 
in a self -pleasing quaintness, than to affect a natural- 
ness (so called) that should be strange to him. Ego- 
tistical they have been pronounced by some who did 
not know, that what he tells us, as of himself, was 
often true only (historically) of another; as in a 
former Essay (to save many instances) — where under 
the first person (his favorite figure) he shadows forth 
the forlorn estate of a country-boy placed at a Lon- 

301 



302 TEE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

don school, far from his friends and connections — in 
direct opposition to his own early history. If it be 
egotism to imply and twine with his own identity the 
griefs and affections of another — making himself 
many, or reducing many unto himself — ^then is the 
skilful novelist, who all along brings in his hero or 
heroine, speaking of themselves, the greatest egotist 
of all; who yet has never, therefore, been accused 
of that narrowness. And how shall the intenser 
dramatist escape being faulty, who, doubtless, under 
cover of passion uttered by another, oftentimes gives 
blameless vent to his most inward feelings, and ex- 
presses his own story modestly. 

My late friend was in many respects a singular 
character. Those who did not like him, hated him; 
and some, who once liked him, afterwards became his 
bitterest haters. The truth is, he gave himself too lit- 
tle concern what he uttered, and in whose presence. 
He observed neither time nor place, and would e'en 
out with what came uppermost. With the severe re- 
ligionist he would pass for a freethinker; while the 
other faction set him down for a bigot, or persuaded 
themselves that he belied his sentiments. Few un- 
derstood him; and I am not certain that at all times 
he quite understood himself. He too much affected 
that dangerous figure — irony. He sowed doubtful 
speeches, and reaped plain, unequivocal hatred. — He 
would interrupt the gravest discussion with some light 
jest; and yet, perhaps, not quite irrelevant in ears 
that could understand it. Your long and much talk- 



PREFACE 303 

ers hated him. The informal habit of his mind, 
joined to an inveterate impediment of speech, for- 
bade him to be an orator; and he seemed determined 
that no one else should play that part when he was 
present. He was petit and ordinary in his person 
and appearance. I have seen him sometimes in what 
is called good company, but where he has been a 
stranger, sit silent, and be suspected for an odd fel- 
low ; till some unlucky occasion provoking it, he would 
stutter out some senseless pun (not altogether sense- 
less perhaps, if rightly taken), which has stamped 
his character for the evening. It was hit or miss with 
him; but nine times out of ten, he contrived by this 
device to send away a whole company his enemies. 
His conceptions rose kindlier than his utterance, and 
his happiest impromptus had the appearance of effort. 
He has been accused of trying to be witty, when in 
truth he was but struggling to give his poor thoughts 
articulation. He chose his companions for some in- 
dividuality of character which they manifested. — 
Hence, not many persons of science, and a few pro- 
fessed literati, were of his councils. They were, for 
the most part, persons of an uncertain fortune; and, 
as to such people commonly nothing is more obnox- 
ious than a gentleman of settled (though moderate) 
income, he passed with most of them for a great 
miser. To my knowledge this was a mistake. His 
intimados,^ to confess a truth, were in the world's eye 
a ragged regiment. He found them floating on the 
surface of society; and the color, or something else 



304 -THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

in the weed pleased him. The burrs stuck to him — 
but they were good and loving burrs for all that. He 
never greatly cared for the society of what are called 
good people. If any of these were scandalized (and 
offenses were sure to arise), he could not help it. 
When he has been remonstrated with for not making 
more concessions to the feelings of good people, he 
would retort by asking, what one point did these good 
people ever concede to him? He was temperate in 
his meals and diversions, but always kept a little on 
this side of abstemiousness. Only in the use of the 
Indian weed ^ he might be thought a little excessive. 
He took it, he would say, as a solvent of speech. 
Marry — as the friendly vapor ascended, how his 
prattle would curl up sometimes with it! the liga- 
ments which tongue-tied him, were loosened, and the 
stammerer proceeded a statist! 

I do not know whether I ought to bemoan or re- 
joice that my old friend is departed. His jests were 
beginning to grow obsolete, and his stories to be found 
out. He felt the approaches of age; and while he 
pretended to cling to life, you saw how slender were 
the ties left to bind him. Discoursing with him lat- 
terly on this subject, he expressed himself with a 
pettishness, which I thought unworthy of him. In 
our walks about his suburban retreat (as he called it) 
at Shacklewell,^ some children belonging to a school 
of industry had met us, and bowed and curtseyed, as 
he thought, in an especial manner to him. *'They 
take me for a visiting governor," he muttered earn- 



BLAKESMOOR IN H SHIRE 305 

estly. He had a horror, which he carried to a foible, 
of looking like anything important and parochial. He 
thoiight that he approached nearer to that stamp 
daily. He had a general aversion from being treated 
like a grave or respectable character, and kept a 
wary eye upon the advances of age that should so 
entitle him. He herded always, while it was possible, 
with people younger than himself. He did not con- 
form to the march of time, but was dragged along in 
the procession. His manners lagged behind his years. 
He was too much of the boy-man. The toga virilis ^ 
never sat gracefully on his shoulders. The impres- 
sions of infancy had burnt into him, and he resented 
the impertinence of manhood. These were weak- 
nesses ; but such as they were, they are a key to ex- 
plicate some of his writings. 

BLAKESMOOR IN H SHIRE 

I DO not know a pleasure more affecting than to range 
at- will over the deserted apartments of some fine old 
family mansion. The traces of extinct grandeur ad- 
mit of a better passion than envy : and contemplations 
on the great and good, whom we fancy in succession 
to have been its inhabitants, weave for us illusions, 
incompatible with the bustle of modern occupancy, 
and vanities of foolish present aristocracy. The same 
difference of feeling, I think, attends us between en- 
tering an empty and a crowded church. In the latter 
it is chance but some present human frailty — an act 



306 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

of inattention on the part of some of the auditory — 
or a trait of affection, or worse, vain-glory, on that of 
the preacher — puts us by our best thoughts, dis- 
harmonizing the place and the occasion. But wouldst 
thou know the beauty of holiness? — go alone on some 
week-day, borrowing the keys of good Master Sexton, 
traverse the cool aisles of some country church : think 
of the piety that has kneeled there — the congrega- 
tions, old and young, that have found consolation 
there — the meek pastor — the docile parishioner. 
With no disturbing emotions, no cross conflicting com- 
passions, drink in the tranquillity of the place, till 
thou thyself become as fixed and motionless as the 
marble effigies that kneel and weep around thee. 

Journeying northward lately, I could not resist 
going some few miles out of my road to look upon the 
remains of an old great house with which I had been 
impressed in this way in infancy. I was apprised 
that the owner of it had lately pulled it down; still 
I had a vague notion that it could not all have per- 
ished, that so much solidity with magnificence could 
not have been crushed all at once into the mere dust 
and rubbish which I found it. 

The work of ruin had proceeded with a swift hand 
indeed, and the demolition of a few weeks had re- 
duced it to — an antiquity. 

I was astonished at the indistinction of everything. 
Where had stood the great gates? What bounded 
the courtyard? Whereabout did the out-houses com- 



BLAKESMOOR IN H 8HIBE 307 

mence? a few bricks only lay as representatives of 
that which was so stately and so spacious. 

Death does not shrink up his human victim at this 
rate. The burnt ashes of a man weigh more in their 
proportion. 

Had I seen these brick-and-mortar knaves at their 
process of destruction, at the plucking of every panel 
I should have felt the varlets at my heart. I should 
have cried out to them to spare a plank at least out 
of the cheerful store-room, in whose hot window-seat 
I used to sit and read Cowley,^ with the grass-plot be- 
fore, and the hum and flappings of that one solitary 
wasp that ever haunted it about me — it is in mine 
ears now, as oft as summer returns; or a panel of 
the yellow room. 

Why, every plank and panel of that house for me 
had magic in it. The tapestried bed-rooms — tapestry 
so much better than painting — not adorning merely, 
but peopling the wainscots — at which childhood ever 
and anon would steal a look, shifting its coverlid 
(replaced as quickly) to exercise its tender courage in 
a momentary eye-encounter with those stern bright 
visages, staring reciprocally — all Ovid ^ on the walls, 
in colors vivider than his descriptions. Actseon in 
mid sprout, with the unappeasable prudery of 
Diana ; ^ and the still more provoking, and almost 
culinary coolness of Dan Phoebus, eel-fashion, delib- 
erately divesting of Marsyas.* 

Then, that haunted room — in which old Mrs. Bat- 



308 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

tie died ^ — whereinto I have crept, but always in the 
day time, with a passion of fear; and a sneaking 
curiosity, terror-tainted, to hold communication with 
the past — How shall they huild it up again? 

It was an old deserted place, yet not so long de- 
serted but that traces of the splendor of past in- 
mates were everywhere apparent. Its furniture was 
still standing — even to the tarnished gilt leather bat- 
tledores, and crumbling feathers of shuttlecocks in the 
nursery, which told that children had once played 
there. But I was a lonely child, and had the range at 
will of every apartment, knew every nook and corner, 
wondered and worshipped everywhere. 

The solitude of childhood is not so much the mother 
of thought, as it is the feeder of love, and silence, and 
admiration. So strange a passion for the place pos- 
sessed me in those years, that, though there lay — I 
shame to say how few roods distant from the man- 
sion — half hid by trees, what I judged some romantic 
lake, such was the spell which bound me to the house, 
and such my carefulness not to pass its strict and 
proper precincts, that the idle waters lay unexplored 
for me ; and not till late in life, curiosity prevailing 
over elder devotion, I found, to my astonishment, a 
pretty brawling brook had been the Lacus Incognitus ^ 
of my infancy. Variegated views, extensive prospects 
— and those at no great distance from the house — I was 
told of such — what were they to me, being out of the 
boundaries of my Eden? — So far from a wish to 
roam, I would have drawn, methought, still closer 



BLAKESMOOB IN H SHIBE 309 

the fences of my chosen prison; and have been 
hemmed in by a yet securer cincture of those ex- 
cluding garden walls. I could have exclaimed with 
that garden-loving poet — 

Bind me, ye woodbines, in your twines; 
Curl me about, ye gadding vines; 
And oh so close your circles lace. 
That I may never leave this place; 
But, lest your fetters prove too weak, 
Ere I your silken bondage break, 
Do you, O brambles, chain me too. 
And, courteous briars, nail me through.i 

I was here as in a lonely temple. Snug firesides — • 
the low-built roof — parlors ten feet by ten — frugal 
boards, and all the homeliness of home — these were 
the condition of my birth — the wholesome soil which 
I was planted in. Yet, without impeachment to 
their tenderest lessons, I am not sorry to have had 
glances of something beyond; and to have taken, if 
but a peep, in childhood, at the contrasting acci- 
dents of a great fortune. 

To have the feeling of gentility, it is not necessary 
to have been born gentle. The pride of ancestry may 
be had on cheaper terms than to be obliged to an im- 
portunate race of ancestors; and the coatless an- 
tiquary in his unemblazoned cell, revolving the long 
line of a Mowbray's or DeClifford's pedigree,^ at those 
sounding names may warm himself into as gay a 
vanity as those who do inherit them. The claims of 
birth are ideal merely, and what herald shall go about 



310 TEE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

to strip me of an idea? Is it trenchant to their 
swords? can it be hacked off as a spur can? or torn 
away like a tarnished garter? 

What, else, were the families of the great to us? 
what pleasures should we take in their tedious gen- 
ealogies, or their capitulatory brass monuments? 
What to us the uninterrupted current of their bloods, 
if our own did not answer within us to a cognate and 
corresponding elevation? 

Or wherefore else, O tattered and diminished 
'Scutceon that hung upon the time-worn walls of thy 
princely stairs, Blakesmoor! have I in childhood so 
oft stood poring upon the mystic characters — thy 
emblematic supporters, with their prophetic "Resur- 
gam ' ' ^ — till, every dreg of peasantry purging off, 
I received into myself Very Gentility? Thou wert 
first in my morning eyes; and of nights, hast de- 
tained my steps from bedward, till it was but a step 
from gazing at thee to dreaming on thee. 

This is the only true gentry by adoption; the 
vertible change of blood, and not, as empirics have 
fabled, by transfusion. 

Who it was by dying that had earned the splendid 
trophy, I know not, I inquired not; but its fading 
rags, and colors cobweb-stained, told that its sub- 
jects was of two centuries back. 

And what if my ancestor at that date was some 
Damoetas - — feeding flocks, not his own, upon the hills 
of Lincoln — did I in less earnest vindicate to myself 
the family trappings of this once proud ^gon ? ^ — re- 



BLAKESWIOOE IN H SHIRE 311 

paying by a backward triumph the insults he might 
possibly have heaped in his life-time upon my poor 
pastoral progenitor. 

If it were presumption so to speculate, the present 
owners of the mansion had least reason to complain. 
They had long forsaken the old house of their fathers 
for a newer trifle; and I was left to appropriate to 
myself what images I could pick up, to raise my 
fancy, or to soothe my vanity. 

I was the true descendant of those old W s; 

and not the present family of that name, who had 
■fled the old waste places. 

Mine was that gallery of good old family portraits, 
which as I have gone over, giving them in fancy my 
own family name, one — and then another — would 
seem to smile — reaching forward from the canvas, to 
recognize the new relationship ; while the rest looked 
grave, as it seemed, at the vacancy in their dwelling, 
and thoughts of fled posterity. 

That Beauty with the cool blue pastoral drapery, 
and a lamb — that hung next the great bay window — 

with the bright yellow H shire hair, and eye of 

watchet hue — so like my Alice ! — I am persuaded she 
was a truer Elia — Mildred Elia, I take it. 

Mine too, Blakesmoor, was thy noble Marble Hall, 
with its mosaic pavements, and its Twelve Caesars — ^ 
stately busts in marble — ranged round: of whose 
countenances, young reader of faces as . I was, the 
frowning beauty of Nero,^ I remember, had most of 
my wonder; but the mild Galba ^ had my love. There 



312 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

they stood in the coldness of death, yet freshness of 
immortality. 

Mine too, thy lofty Justice Hall, with its one chair 
of authority, high-backed and wickered, once the ter- 
ror of luckless poacher, or self -forgetful maiden — so 
common since, that bats have roosted in it. 

Mine too — ^whose else? — thy costly fruit-garden, 
with its sun-baked southern wall ; the ampler pleasure- 
garden, rising backwards from the house in triple 
terraces, with flower-pots now of palest lead, save 
that a speck here and there, saved from the elements, 
bespake their pristine state to have been gilt and glit- 
tering; the verdant quarters backwarder still; and, 
stretching still beyond, in old formality, thy firry 
wilderness, the haunt of the squirrel, and the day-long 
murmuring wood-pigeon, with that antique image in 
the center, God or Goddess I wist not; but child of 
Athens or old Rome paid never a sincerer worship to 
Pan or to Sylvanus ^ in their native groves, than I to 
that fragmental mystery. 

Was it for this, that I kissed my childish hands 
too fervently in your idol worship, walks and wind- 
ings of Blakesmoor! for this, or what sin of mine, 
has the plough passed over your pleasant places? I 
sometimes think that as men, when they die, do not 
die all, so of their extinguished habitations there may 
be a hope — a germ to be revivified. 



FOOE RELATIONS 313 



POOR RELATIONS 

A POOR Relation — is the most irrelevant thing in 
nature, — a piece of impertinent correspondency, — an 
odious approximation, — a haunting conscience, — a 
preposterous shadow, lengthening in the noontide of 
our prosperity, an unwelcome remembrancer, — a per- 
petually recurring mortification, — a drain on your 
purse, — a more intolerable dun upon your pride, — a 
drawback upon success, — a rebuke to your rising, — a 
stain in your blood, — a blot on your 'scutcheon, — a 
rent in your garment, — a death's head at your ban- 
quet,— Agathocles' pot,^ — a Mordecai in your gate,^ 
— a Lazarus at your door,* — a lion in your path, — a 
frog in your chamber, — a fly in your ointment, — a 
mote in your eye, — a triumph to your enemy, an 
apology to your friends, — the one thing not needful, 
— the hail in harvest, — the ounce of sour in a pound 
of sweet. 

He is known by his knock. Your heart telleth 

you "That is Mr. ." A rap, between familiarity 

and respect; that demands, and, at the same time, 
seems to despair of, entertainment. He entereth 
smiling and — embarrassed. He holdeth out his hand 
to you to shake, and — draweth it back again. He 
casually looketh in about dinner-time — when the table 
is full. He off ere th to go away, seeing you have 
company, but is induced to stay. He filleth a chair, 
and your visitor's two children are accommodated at 



314 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

a side table. He never cometh upon open days, when 
your wife says with some complacency, ''My dear, 

perhaps Mr. will drop in to-day." He remem- 

bereth birthdays — and professeth he is fortunate to 
have stumbled upon one. He declareth against fish, 
the turbot being small — yet suffereth himself to be 
importuned into a slice against his first resolution. 
He sticketh by the port — ^yet will be prevailed upon to 
empty the remainder glass of claret, if a stranger press 
it upon him. He is a puzzle to the servants, who are 
fearful of being too obsequious, or not civil enough, 
to him. The guests think "they have seen him be- 
fore." Everyone speculateth upon his condition; 
and the most part take him to be — a tide waiter. He 
calleth you by your Christian name, to imply that 
his other is the same with your own. He is too fa- 
miliar by half, yet you wish he had less diffidence. 
With half the familiarity he might pass for a casual 
dependent; with more boldness he would be in no 
danger of being taken for what he is. He is too hum- 
ble for a friend, yet taketh on him more state than 
befits a client. He is a worse guest than a country 
tenant, inasmuch as he bringeth up no rent — yet 'tis 
odds, from his garb and demeanor, that your guests 
take him for one. He is asked to make one at the 
whist table; refuseth on the score of poverty, and — 
resents being left out. When the company break up 
he proffereth to go for a coach — and lets the servant 
go. He recollects your grandfather; and will thrust 
in some mean and quite unimportant anecdote of — 



POOE RELATIONS 315 

the family. He knew it when it was not quite so 
flourishing' as "he is blest in seeing it now." He re- 
viveth past situations to institute what he calleth — ■ 
favorable comparisons. With a reflecting sort of 
congratulation, he will inquire the price of your fur- 
niture : and insults you with a special commendation 
of your window-curtains. He is of opinion that the 
urn is the more elegant shape, but, after all, there 
was something more comfortable about the old tea- 
kettle — which you must remember. He dare say you 
must find a great convenience in having a carriage of 
your own, and appealeth to your lady if it is not so. 
Inquireth if you have had your arms done on vellum 
yet; and did not know, till lately, that such-and-such 
had been the crest of the family. His memory is un- 
seasonable : his compliments perverse : his talk a 
trouble ; his stay pertinacious ; and when he goeth 
away, you dismiss his chair into a corner, as pre- 
cipitately as possible, and feel fairly rid of two nui- 
sances. 

There is a worse evil under the sun, and that is — 
a female Poor Relation. You may do something with 
the other; you may pass him off tolerably well; but 
your indigent she-relative is hopeless. ''He is an old 
humorist," you may say, "and affects to go thread- 
bare. His circumstances are better than folks would 
take them to be. You are fond of having a Character 
at your table, and truly, he is one." But in the in- 
dications of female poverty there can be no disguise. 
No woman dresses below herself from caprice. The 



316 TEE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

truth must out without shuffling. ' ' She is plainly re- 
lated to the L s ; or what does she at their house ? ' ' 

She is, in all probability, your wife's cousin. Nine 
times out of ten, at least, this is the case. Her garb 
is something between a gentlewoman and a beggar, 
yet the former evidently predominates. She is most 
provokingiy humble, and ostentatiously sensible to her 
inferiority. He may require to be repressed some- 
times — aliquando siifflaminandiis erat ^ — ^but there is 
no raising her. You send her soup at dinner, and 
she begs to be helped — after the gentlemen. Mr. 

■ requests the honor of taking wine with her ; she 

hesitates between Port and Madeira, and chooses the 
former — because he does. She calls the servant Sir; 
and insists on not troubling him to hold her plate. 
The housekeeper patronizes her. The children's gov- 
erness takes upon her to correct her, when she has mis- 
taken the piano for harpsichord. 

^ Richard Amlet, Esq.,^ in the play, is a noticeable in- 
stance of the disadvantages, to which this chimerical 
notion of affinity constituting a claim to an acquaint- 
ance, may subject the spirit of a gentleman. A lit- 
tle foolish blood is all that is betwixt him and a lady 
with a great estate. His stars are perpetually crossed 
by the malignant maternity of an old woman, who 
persists in calling him "her son Dick." But she has 
wherewithal in the end to recompense his indignities, 
and float him again upon the brilliant surface, under 
which it had been her seeming business and pleasure 
all along to sink him. All men, besides, are not of 



POOR RELATIONS 317 

Dick's temperament. I knew an Amlet in real life, 
who wanting Dick's buoyancy, sank indeed. Poor 

W- ^ was of my own standing at Christ 's, a fine 

classic, and a youth of promise. If he had a blemish, 
it was too much pride ; but its quality was inoffensive ; 
it was not of that sort which hardens the heart, and 
serves to keep inferiors at a distance; it only sought 
to ward off derogation from itself. It was the prin- 
ciple of self-respect carried as far as it could go, with- 
out infringing upon that respect, which he would have 
every one else equally maintain for himself. He 
would have you to think alike with him on this topic. 
Many a quarrel have I had with him, when we were 
rather older boys, and our tallness made us more ob- 
noxious to observation in the blue clothes, because I 
would not thread the alleys and blind ways of the 
town with him to elude notice, when we have been out 
together on a holiday in the streets of this sneering 

and prying metropolis. W went, sore with these 

notions, to Oxford, where the dignity and sweetness 
of a scholar 's life, meeting with the alloy of a humble 
introduction, wrought in him a passionate devotion 
to the place, with a profound aversion to the society. 
The servitor's gown (worse than his school array) 
clung to him with Nessian - venom. He thought him- 
self ridiculous in a garb, under which Latimer ^ must 
have walked erect; and in which Hooker,* in his 
young days, possibly flaunted in a vein of no discom- 
mendable vanity. In the depths of college shades, 
or in his lonely chamber, the poor student shrunk 



318 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

from observation. He found shelter among books, 
which insult not ; and studies, that ask no questions of 
a youth's finances. He was lord of his library, and 
seldom cared for looking out beyond his domains. 
The healing influence of studious pursuits was upon 
him, to soothe and to abstract. He was almost a 
healthy man ; when the waywardness of his fate broke 
out against him with a second and worse malignity. 
The father of W had hitherto exercised the hum- 
ble profession of house-painter at N , near Oxford. 

A supposed interest with some of the heads of colleges 
had now induced him to take up his abode in that city, 
with the hope of being employed upon some public 
works which were talked of. From that moment I 
read in the countenance of the young man, the de- 
termination which at length tore him from academical 
pursuits for ever. To a person unacquainted with 
our Universities, the distance between the gownsmen 
and the townsmen, as they are called — the trading 
part of the latter especially — is carried to an excess 
that would appear harsh and incredible. The tem- 
perament of W 's father was diametrically the re- 
verse of his own. Old W was a little, busy, 

cringing tradesman, who, with his son upon his arm, 
would stand bowing and scraping, cap in hand, to 
anything that wore the semblance of a gown — insensi- 
ble to the winks and opener remonstrances of the 
young man, to whose chamber-fellow, or equal in 
standing, perhaps, he was thus obsequiously and gra- 
tuitously ducking. Such a state of things could not 



FOOB RELATIONS 319 

last. W must change the air of Oxford or be 

suffocated. He chose the former; and let the sturdy 
moralist, who strains the point of the filial duties as 
high as they can bear, censure the dereliction; he 

cannot estimate the struggle. I stood with W , 

the last afternoon I ever saw him, under the eaves of 
his paternal dwelling. It was in the fine lane lead- 
ing from the High Street to the back of ****' college, 
where W kept his rooms. He seemed thought- 
ful, and more reconciled. I ventured to rally him — 
finding him in a better mood — ^upon a representation 
of the Artist Evangelist,^ which the old man, whose 
affairs were beginning to flourish, had caused to be set 
up in a splendid sort of frame over his really hand- 
some shop, either as a token of prosperity, or badge of 

gratitude to his saint. W looked up at the Luke, 

and, like Satan, "knew his mounted sign — and fled." 
A letter on his father's table the next morning, an- 
nounced that he had accepted a commission in a regi- 
ment about to embark for Portugal. He was among 
the first who perished before the walls of St. Sebas- 
tian.^ 

I do not know how, upon a subject which I began 
with treating half seriously, I should have fallen upon 
a recital so eminently painful; but this theme of 
poor relationship is replete with so much matter for 
tragic as well as comic associations, that it is difficult 
to keep the account distinct without blending. The 
earliest injpressions which I received on this matter, 
are certainly not attended with anything painful, or 



320 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

very humiliating, in the recalling. At my father's 
table (no very splendid one) was to be found, every 
Saturday, the mysterious figure of an aged gentle- 
man clothed in neat black, of a sad yet comely appear- 
ance. His deportment was of the essence of gravity; 
his words few or none ; and I was not to make a noise 
in his presence. I had little inclination to have done 
so — for my cue was to admire in silence. A particu- 
lar elbow chair was appropriated to him, which was 
in no case to be violated. A peculiar sort of sweet 
pudding, which appeared on no other occasion, dis- 
tinguished the days of his coming. I used to think 
him a prodigiously rich man. All I could make out 
of him was, that he and my father had been school- 
fellows a world ago at Lincoln, and that he came from 
the Mint.^ The Mint I knew to be a place where all 
the money was coined — and I thought he was the 
owner of all that money. Awful ideas of the Tower 
twined themselves about his presence. He seemed 
above human infirmities and passions. A sort of 
melancholy grandeur invested him. From some in- 
explicable doom I fancied him obliged to go about 
in an eternal suit of mourning; a captive — a stately 
being, let out of the Tower on Saturdays. Often 
have I wondered at the temerity of my father, who, 
in spite of an habitual general respect which we all 
in common manifested towards him, would venture 
now and then to stand up against him in some argu- 
ment, touching their youthful days. The houses of 
the ancient city of Lincoln are divided (as most of 



POOU, RELATIONS 321 

my readers know) between the dwellers on the hill, 
and in the valley. This marked distinction formed an 
obvious division between the boys who lived above 
(however brought together in a common school) and 
the boys whose paternal residence was on the plain; 
a sufficient cause of hostility in the code of these 
young Grotiuses.^ My father had been a leading 
Mountaineer; and would still maintain the general 
superiority, in skill and hardihood, of the Above 
Boys (his own faction) over the Below Boys (so were 
they called), of which party his contemporary had 
been a chieftain. Many and hot were the skirmishes on 
this topic — the only one upon which the old gentleman 
was ever brought out — and bad blood bred ; even some- 
times almost to the recommencement (so I expected) 
of actual hostilities. But my father, who scorned 
to insist upon advantages, generally contrived to turn 
the conversation upon some adroit by-commendation 
of the old Minster; in the general preference of 
which, before all other cathedrals in the island, the 
dweller on the hill, and the plain-bom, could meet 
on a conciliating level, and lay down their less im- 
portant differences. Once only I saw the old gentle- 
man really ruffled, and I remembered with anguish 
the thought that came over me: ''Perhaps he will 
never come here again." He had been pressed to 
take another plate of the viand, which I have already 
mentioned as the indispensable concomitant of his 
visits. He had refused with a resistance amounting 
to rigor — when my aunt, an old Lincolnian, but who 



322 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

had something of this in common with my cousin 
Bridget, that she would sometimes press civility out 
of season — uttered the following memorable applica- 
tion — "Do take another slice^ Mr. Billet, for you do 
not get pudding every day." The old gentleman 
said nothing at the time — but he took occasion in the 
course of the evening, when some argument had in- 
tervened between them, to utter with an emphasis 
which chilled the company, and which chills me now as 
I write it — ' ' Woman, you are superannuated. ' ' John 
Billet did not survive long, after the digesting of 
this affront; but he survived long enough to assure 
me that peace was actually restored ! and, if I remem- 
ber aright, another pudding was discreetly substi- 
tuted in the place of that which had occasioned the 
offense. He died at the Mint (anno 1781) where he 
had long held, what he accounted, a comfortable in- 
dependence ; and with five pounds, fourteen shillings, 
and a penny, which were found in his escritoire after 
his decease^ left the world, blessing God that he had 
enough to bury him, and that he had never been 
obliged to any man for a sixpence. This was — a 
Poor Relation. 



THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND BEADING 323 



DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND 
READING 

To mind the inside of a book is to entertain one's self with 
the forced product of another man's brain. Now I think 
a man of quality and breeding may be much amused with 
the natural sprouts of his own. 

Lord Foppington in the Relapse.^ 

An ingenious acquaintance of my own was so much 
struck with this bright sally of his Lordship, that he 
has left off reading altogether, to the great improve- 
ment of his originality. At the hazard of losing some 
credit on this head, I must confess that I dedicate 
no inconsiderable portion of my time to other peo- 
ple's thoughts. I dream away my life in others' 
speculations. I love to lose myself in other men's 
minds. When I am not walking, I am reading; I 
cannot sit and think. Books think for me. 

I have no repugnances. Shaftesbury^ is not too 
genteel for me, nor Jonathan Wild * too low. I can 
read anything which I call a look. There are things 
in that shape which I cannot allow for such. 

In this catalogue of hooks which are no looks— 
hihlia a-hiUia—l reckon Court Calendars, Direc- 
tories, Pocket Books, Draught Boards, bound and let- 
tered on the back. Scientific Treatises, Almanacks, 
Statutes at Large ; the works of Hume, Gibbon, Rob- 
ertson, Beattie, Soame Jenyns,^ and, generally, all 
those volumes which ''no gentlemen's library should 



324 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

be without:" the histories of Flavins Josephus^ (that 
learned Jew), and Paley's Moral Philosophy.- With 
these exceptions, I can read almost anything. I 
bless my stars for a taste so catholic, so nnexclnding. 

I confess that it moves my spleen to see these 
things in hooks' clothing perched upon shelves, like 
false saints, usurpers of true shrines, intruders into 
the sanctuary, thrusting out the legitimate occupants. 
To reach down a Avell-bound semblance of a volume, 
and hope it some kind-hearted play-book, then, open- 
ing what ' ' seem its leaves, ' ' to come bolt upon a with- 
ering Population Essay. To expect a Steele, or a Far- 
quhar, and find — Adam Smith. ^ To view a well-ar- 
ranged assortment of blockheaded Encyclopgedias 
(Anglicanas or Metropolitanas) set out in an array 
of Eussia, or Morocco, when a tithe of that good 
leather would comfortably re-clothe my shivering 
folios ; would renovate Paracelsus ^ himself, and enable 
old Eaymond Lully ^ to look like himself again in the 
world. I never see these impostors, but I long to 
strip them, to warm my ragged veterans in their 
spoils. 

To be strong-backed and neat-bound is the desider- 
atum of a volume. Magnificence comes after. This, 
when it can be afforded, is not to be lavished upon 
all kinds of books indiscriminately. I would not 
dress a set of Magazines, for instance, in full suit. 
The dishabille, or half -binding (with Russia backs 
ever) is our costume. A Shakspeare, or a Milton 
(unless the first editions), it were mere foppery to 



THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND BEADING 325 

trick out in gay apparel. The possession of them 
confers no distinction. The exterior of them (the 
things themselves being so common), strange to say, 
raises no sweet emotions, no tickling sense of prop- 
erty in the owner. Thomson's Seasons,^ again, looks 
best (I maintain it) a little torn, and dog's-eared. 
How beautiful to a genuine lover of reading are the 
sullied leaves and worn-out appearance, nay, the very 
odor (beyond Russia), if we would not forget kind 
feelings in fastidiousness, of an old "Circulating Li- 
brary ' ' Tom Jones, or Vicar of Wakefield ! How 
they speak of the thousand thumbs, that have turned 
over their pages with delight ! — of the lone sempstress, 
whom they may have cheered (milliner, or harder- 
working mantua-maker) after her long day's needle- 
toil, running far into midnight, when she has snatched 
an hour, ill-spared from sleep, to steep her cares, as in 
some Lethean cup, in spelling out their enchanting 
contents! Who would have them a whit less soiled? 
What better condition could we desire to see them in ? 
In some respects the better a book is, the less it de- 
mands from binding. Fielding, Smollet, Sterne,^ and 
all that class of perpetually self-reproductive vol- 
umes — Great Nature's Stereotypes — we see them in- 
dividually perish with less regret, because we know 
the copies of them to be "eterne." But where a 
book is at once both good and rare — where the in- 
dividual is almost the species, and when that perishes, 

We know not where is that Promethean torch 
That can its light relumine — s 



326 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

such a book^ for instance, as the Life of the Duke of 
Newcastle, by his Duchess ^ — no casket is rich enough, 
no casing sufficiently durable, to honor and keep safe 
such a jewel. 

Not only rare volumes of this description, which 
seem hopeless ever to be reprinted; but old editions 
of writers, such as Sir Philip Sydney, Bishop Taylor, 
Milton in his prose-works, Fuller — of whom we have 
reprints, yet the books themselves, though they go 
about, and are talked of here and there, we know, 
have not endenizened themselves (nor possibly ever 
will) in the national heart, so as to become stock 
books — it is good to possess these in durable and 
costly covers. I do not care for a First Folio of 
Shakspeare. I rather prefer the common editions of 
Rowe and Tonson ^ without notes, and with plates, 
which, being so execrably bad, serve as maps, or mod- 
est remembrancers, to the text; and without pretend- 
ing to any supposable emulation with it, are so much 
better than the Shakspeare gallery engravings, which 
did. I have a community of feeling with my coun- 
trymen about his Plays, and I like those editions of 
him best, which have been oftenest tumbled about 
and handled. — On the contrary, I cannot read Beau- 
mont and Fletcher ^ but in Folio. The Octavo editions 
are painful to look at. I have no sympathy with 
them. If they were as much read as the current 
editions of the other poet, I should prefer them in 
that shape to the older one. I do not know a more 
heartless sight than the reprint of the Anatomy of 



THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND BEADING 327 

Melancholy. What need was there of unearthing the 
bones of that fantastic old great man, to expose them 
in a winding-sheet of the newest fashion to modern 
censure? what hapless stationer could dream of Bur- 
ton ever becoming popular ? — The wretched Malone ^ 
could not do worse, when he bribed the sexton of Strat- 
ford church to let him white-wash the painted effigy 
of old Shakspeare, which stood there, in rude but 
lively fashion depicted, to the very color of the cheek, 
the eye, the eyebrow, hair, the very dress he used to 
wear — the only authentic testimony wd'had, however 
imperfect, of these curious parts and parcels of him. 
They covered him over with a coat of white paint. 
By , if I had been a justice of peace for War- 
wickshire, I would have clapped both commentator and 
sexton fast in the stocks, for a pair of meddling sac- 
rilegious varlets. 

I think I see them at their work — these sapient 
trouble-tombs. 

Shall I be thought fantastical, if I confess, that 
the names of some of our poets sound sweeter, and 
have a finer relish to the ear — to mine, at least — than 
that of Milton or of Shakspeare? It may be, that 
the latter are more staled and rung upon in common 
discourse. The sweetest names, and which carry a 
perfume in the mention, are. Kit Marlowe, Drayton, 
Drummond of Hawthornden, and Cowley.^ 

Much depends upon when and where you read a 
book. In the five or six impatient minutes, before 
the dinner is quite ready, who would think of taking 



328 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

up the Fairy Queen for a stop-gap, or a volume of 
Bishop Andrewes ' ^ sermons ? 

Milton almost requires a solemn service of music 
to be played before you enter upon him. But he 
brings his music, to which, who listens, had need 
bring docile thoughts, and purged ears. 

Winter evenings — the world shut out — with less of 
ceremony the gentle Shakspeare enters. At such a 
season, the Tempest, or his own Winter's Tale — 

These two poets you cannot avoid reading aloud — 
to yourself, or (as it chances) to some single person 
listening. More than one — and it degenerates into 
an audience. 

Books of quick interest, that hurry on for incidents, 
are for the eye to glide over only. It will not do to 
read them out. I could never listen to even the bet- 
ter kind of modern novels without extreme irksome- 
ness. 

A newspaper, read out, is intolerable. In some of 
the Bank offices it is the custom (to save so much in- 
dividual time) for one of the clerks — who is the best 
scholar — to commerce upon the Times, or the Chron- 
icle, and recite its entire contents aloud pro bono 
publico? With every advantage of lungs and elocu- 
tion, the effect is singularly vapid. In barbers' shops 
and public-houses a fellow will get up, and spell out a 
paragraph which he communicates as some discovery. 
Another follows with Jiis selection. So the entire 
journal transpires at length by piece-meal. Seldom- 
readers are slow readers, and without this expedient 



THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND BEADING 329 

no one in the company v/ould probably ever travel 
through the contents of a whole paper. 

Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever 
lays one down without a feeling of disappointment. 

What an eternal time that gentleman in black, at 
Nando 's ^ keeps the paper ! I am sick of hearing the 
waiter bawling out incessantly, "the Chronicle is in 
hand, Sir." 

Coming in to an inn at night — having ordered 
your supper — ^what can be more delightful than to find 
lying in the window-seat, left there time out of mind 
by the carelessness of some former guest — two or 
three numbers of the old Town and Country Mag- 
azine, with its amusing tete-a-tete pictures — "The 
Royal Lover and Lady G ;" "The Melting Pla- 
tonic and the Old Beau," — and such like antiquated 
scandal? Would you exchange it — at that time, and 
in that place — for a better book ? 

Poor Tobin,2 who latterly fell blind, did not regret 
it so much for the weightier kinds of reading — the 
Paradise Lost, or Comus, he could have read to him 
— but he missed the pleasure of skimming over with 
his own eye a magazine, or a light pamphlet. 

I should not care to be caught in the serious 
avenues of some cathedral alone and reading Candide.^ 

I do not remember a more whimsical surprise than 
having been once detected — by a familiar damsel — re- 
clining at my ease upon the grass, on Primrose Hill * 
(her Cythera) ,^ reading Pamela.^ There was nothing 
in the book to make a man seriously ashamed at the 



330 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

exposure; but as she seated herself down by me, and 
seemed determined to read in company, I could have 
wished it had been — any other book. We read on 
very sociably for a few pages; and, not finding the 
author much to her taste, she got up, and — ^went away. 
Gentle casuist, I leave it to thee to conjecture, whether 
the blush (for there was one between us) was the 
property of the nymph or the swain in this dilemma. 
From me you shall never get the secret. 

I am not much a friend to out-of-doors reading. I 
cannot settle my spirits to it. I knew a Unitarian 
minister, who was generally to be seen upon Snow 
Hill (as yet Skinner's Street was not), between the 
hours of ten and eleven in the morning, studying a 
volume of Lardner.^ I own this to have been a strain 
of abstraction beyond my reach. I used to admire 
how he sidled along, keeping clear of secular con- 
tacts. An illiterate encounter with a porter's knot, 
or a bread basket, would have quickly put to flight 
all the theology I am master of, and have left me 
worse than indifferent to the five points. 

There is a class of street-readers, whom I can never 
contemplate without affection — the poor gentry, who, 
not having wherewithal to buy or hire a book, filch a 
little learning at the open stalls — the owner, with his 
hard eye, casting envious looks at them all the while, 
and thinking when they will have done. Venturing 
tenderly, page after page, expecting every moment 
when he shall interpose his interdict, and yet unable 
to deny themselves the gratification, they "snatch a 



THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND READING 331 

fearful joy." Martin B / in this way, by daily 

fragments, got through two volumes of Clarissa,^ when 
the stall-keeper damped his laudable ambition, by ask- 
ing him (it was in his younger days) whether he 
meant to purchase the work. M. declares, that under 
no circumstance in his life did he ever peruse a book 
with half the satisfaction which he took in those un- 
easy snatches. A quaint poetess of our day ^ has 
moralized upon this subject in two very touching but 
homely stanzas. 

I saw a boy with eager eye 
Open a book upon a stall, 
And read, as he'd devour it all; 
Which when the stall-man did esj^y, 
Soon to the boy I heard him call, 
" You, Sir, you never buy a book, 
Therefore in one you shall not look." 
The boy pass'd slowly on, and with a sigh 
He wish'd he never had been taught to read. 
Then of the old churl's books he should have had no 
need. 

Of sufferings the poor have many, 

Which never can the rich annoy: 

I soon perceiv'd another boy, 

Who look'd as if he had not any 

Food, for that day at least — enjoy 

The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder. 

This boy's case, then thought I, is surely harder. 

Thus hungry, longing, thus without a penny, 

Beholding choice of dainty-dressed meat : 

No wonder if he wish he ne'er had learn'd to eat. 



332 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 



STAGE ILLUSION 

A PLAY is said to be well or ill acted in proportion to 
the scenical illusion produced. Whether such illu- 
sion can in any case be perfect, is not the question. 
The nearest approach to it, we are told is, when the 
actor appears wholly unconscious of the presence 
of spectators. In tragedy — in all which is to affect 
the feelings — this undivided attention to his stage 
business seems indispensable. Yet it is, in fact, dis- 
pensed with every day by our cleverest tragedians; 
and while these references to an audience, in the 
shape of rant or sentiment, are not too frequent or 
palpable, a sufficient quantity of illusion for the 
purposes of dramatic interest may be said to be pro- 
duced in spite of them. But, tragedy apart, it may 
be inquired whether, in certain characters in comedy, 
especially those which are a little extravagant, or 
which involve some notion repugnant to the moral 
sense, it is not a proof of the highest skill in the 
comedian when, without absolutely appealing to an 
audience, he keeps up a tacit understanding with 
them; and makes them, unconsciously to themselves, 
a party in the scene. The utmost nicety is required 
in the mode of doing this; but we speak only of the 
great artists in the profession. 

The most mortifying infirmity in human nature, 
to feel in ourselves^ or to contemplate in another, is, 
perhaps, cowardice. To see a coward done to the life 



STAGE ILLUSION 333 

upon a stage would produce anything but mirth. 
Yet we most of us remember Jack Bannister's cow- 
ards.^ Could anything be more agreeable, more pleas- 
ant? We loved the rogues. How was this effected 
but by the exquisite art of the actor in a perpetual 
sub-insinuation to us, the spectators, even in the ex- 
tremity of the shaking fit, that he was not half such 
a coward as we took him for? We saw all the com- 
mon symptoms of the malady upon him; the quiver- 
ing lip, the cowering knees, the teeth chattering; and 
could have sworn "that man was frightened." But 
we forgot all the while — or kept it almost a secret 
to ourselves — that he never once lost his self-posses- 
sion; that he let out by a thousand droll looks and 
gestures — meant to us, and not at all supposed to be 
visible to his fellows in the scene, that his confidence 
in his own resources had never once deserted him. 
Was this a genuine picture of a coward ? or not rather 
a likeness, which the clever artist contrived to palm 
upon us instead of an original; while we secretly 
connived at the delusion for the purpose of greater 
pleasure, than a more genuine counterfeiting of the 
imbecility, helplessness, and utter self-desertion, 
which we know to be concomitants of cowardice in 
real life, could have given us? 

Why are misers so hateful in the world, and so 
endurable on the stage, but because the skilful actor, 
by a sort of sub-reference, rather than direct appeal 
to us, disarms the character of a great deal of its 
odiousness, by seeming to engage our compassion for 



334 THE ESSAYS OP ELIA 

the insecure tenure by which he holds his money 
bags and parchments? By this subtle vent half of 
the hatefulness of the character — the self-closeness 
with which in real life it coils itself up from the 
sympathies of men — evaporates. The miser becomes 
sympathetic; i. e. is no genuine miser. Here again a 
diverting likeness is substituted for a very disagree- 
able reality. 

Spleen, irritability — the pitiable infirmities of old 
men, which produce only pain to behold in the real- 
ities, counterfeited upon a stage, divert not altogether 
for the comic appendages to them, but in part from 
an inner conviction that they are being acted before 
us ; that a likeness only is going on, and not the thing 
itself. They please by being done under the life, 
or beside it; not to the life. When Gatty acts an 
old man, is he angry indeed ? or only a pleasant coun- 
terfeit, just enough of a likeness to recognize, without 
pressing upon us the uneasy sense of a reality. 

Comedians, paradoxical as it may seem, may be 
too natural. It was the case with a late actor. Noth- 
ing could be more earnest or true than the manner 
of Mr. Emery; this told excellently in his Tyke, and 
characters of a tragic cast. But when he carried the 
same rigid exclusiveness of attention to the stage 
business, and wilful blindness and oblivion of every- 
thing before the curtain into his comedy, it produced 
a harsh and dissonant effect. He was out of keeping 
with the rest of the Personce Dramatis. There was 
as little link between him and them as betwixt him- 



STAGE ILLUSION 335 

self and the audience. He was a third estate, dry, 
repulsive, and unsocial to all. Individually consid- 
ered, his execution was masterly. But comedy is not 
this unbending thing; for this reason, that the same 
degree of credibility is not required of it as to se- 
rious scenes. The degrees of credibility demanded 
to the two things may be illustrated by the different 
sort of truth which we expect when a man tells us a 
mournful or a merry story. If we suspect the for- 
mer of falsehood in any one tittle, we reject it alto- 
gether. Our tears refuse to flow at a suspected im- 
position. But the teller of a mirthful tale has lati- 
tude allowed him. We are content with less than ab- 
solute truth. 'Tis the same with dramatic illusion. 
We confess we love in comedy to see an audience 
naturalized behind the scenes, taken into the interest 
of the drama, welcomed as by-standers however. 
There is something ungracious in a comic actor hold- 
ing himself aloof from all participation or concern 
with those who are come to be diverted by him. Mac- 
beth must see the dagger, and no ear but his own 
be told of it; but an old fool in farce may think he 
sees something, and by conscious words and looks ex- 
press it, as plainly as he can speak, to pit, box, and 
gallery. When an impertinent in tragedy, an Osric,^ 
for instance, breaks in upon the serious passions of 
the scene, we approve of the contempt with which 
he is treated. But when the pleasant impertinent of 
comedy, in a piece purely meant to give delight, and 
raise mirth out of whimsical perplexities worries the 



336 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

studious man with taking up his leisure, or making 
his house his home, the same sort of contempt ex- 
pressed (however natural) would destroy the balance 
of delight in the spectators. To make the intrusion 
comic, the actor who plays the annoyed man must a 
little desert nature; he must, in short, be thinking 
of the audience, and express only so much dissatis- 
faction and peevishness as is consistent with the 
pleasure of comedy. In other words, his perplexity 
must seem half put on. If he repel the intruder with 
the sober set face of a man in earnest, and more es- 
pecially if he deliver his expostulations in a tone 
which in the world must necessarily provoke a duel ; his 
real-life manner will destroy the whimsical and purelj^ 
dramatic existence of the other character (which 
to render it comic demands an antagonist comicality 
on the part of the character opposed to it), and con- 
vert what was meant for mirth, rather than belief, 
into a downright piece of impertinence indeed, which 
would raise no diversion in us, but rather stir pain, 
to see inflicted in earnest upon any unworthy person. 
A very judicious actor (in most of his parts) seems 
to have fallen into an error of this sort in his play- 
ing with Mr. Wrench in the farce of Free and Easy. 
Many instances would be tedious ; these may suffice 
to show that comic acting at least does not always 
demand from the performer that strict abstraction 
from all reference to an audience which is exacted 
of it; but that in some cases a sort of compromise 
may take place, and all the purposes of dramatic de- 



TO THE SHADE OF ELLI8T0N 337 

light be attained by a judicious understanding, not 
too openly announced, between the ladies and gentle- 
men — on both sides of the curtain. 



TO THE SHADE OF ELLISTON 

JoYOUSEST of once embodied spirits, whither at length 
hast thou flown? To what genial region are we per- 
mitted to conjecture that thou hast flitted? 

Art thou sowing thy wild oats yet (the harvest 
time was still to come with thee) upon casual sands 
of Avernus?*^ or art thou enacting Rover (as we 
would gladlier think) by wandering Elysian streams?* 

This mortal frame, while thou didst play thy brief 
antics amongst us, was in truth anything but a prison 
to thee, as the vain Platonist * dreams of this dody to 
be no better than a county gaol, forsooth, or some 
house of durance vile, whereof the five senses are 
the fetters. Thou knewest better than to be in a 
hurry to cast off those gyves ; and had notice to quit, 
I fear, before thou wert quite ready to abandon this 
fleshy tenement. It was thy Pleasure-House, thy 
Palace of Dainty Devices : thy Louvre, or thy White 
Hall. 

What new mysterious lodgings dost thou tenant 
now? or when may we expect thy aerial house-warm- 
ing? 

Tartarus ^ we know, and we have read of the 
Blessed Shades : now cannot I intelligibly fancy thee 
in either? 



338 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Is it too much to hazard to conjecture, that (as 
the schoolmen admitted a receptacle apart for Pa- 
triarchs and unchrisom Babes) there may exist^ — 
not far perchance from that storehouse of all vani- 
ties, which Milton saw in visions — a Limbo ^ some- 
where for Players? and that 

Up thither like aerial vapors fly- 
Both all Stage things, and all that in Stage things 
Built their fond hopes of glory, or lasting fame? 
All the unaeeomplish'd works of Authors' hands. 
Abortive, monstrous, or unkindly mixed, 
Damn'd upon earth fleet thither — 
Play, Opera, Farce, with all their trumpery, — 2 

There, by the neighboring moon (by some not 
improperly supposed thy Kegent Planet upon earth) 
mayst thou not still be acting thy managerial pranks, 
great disembodied Lessee? but Lessee still, and still 
a Manager. 

In Green Rooms, impervious to mortal eye, the 
muse beholds thee wielding posthumous empire. . 

Thin ghosts of Figurantes (never plump on earth) 
circle thee in endlessly, and still their song is Fie on 
sinful Phantasy. 

Magnificent were thy cappriccios on this globe of 
earth, Egbert William Elliston ! for as yet we know 
not thy new name in heaven. 

It irks me to think, that, stripped of thy regalities, 
thou shouldst ferry over, a poor forked shade, in 
crazy Stygian wherry.^ Methinks I hear the old 
boatman, paddling by the weedy wharf, with raucid 



TO THE SHADE OF ELLISTON 339 

voice, bawling "Sculls, Sculls:" to which with 
waving hand, and majestic action, thou deignest no 
reply, other than in two curt monosyllables, "No: 
Oars." 

But the laws of Pluto 's kingdom ^ know small dif- 
ference between king, and cobbler; manager, and 
call-boy; and, if haply your dates of life were con- 
terminant, you are quietly taking your passage, cheek 
by cheek (0 ignoble leveling of Death) with the 
shade of some recently departed candle-snuffer. 

But mercy ! what strippings, what tearing off of 
histrionic robes, and private vanities! what denuda- 
tions to the bone, before the surly Ferryman ^ will ad- 
mit you to set a foot within his battered lighter. 

Crowns, scepters; shield, sword, and truncheon; 
thy own coronation robes (for thou hast brought the 
whole property man's wardrobe with thee, enough 
to sink a navy) ; the judge's ermine; the coxcomb's 
wig ; the snuff-box a la Foppington ^ — all must over- 
board, he positively swears — and that ancient mar- 
iner brooks no denial; for, since the tiresome mono- 
drame of the old Thracian Harper,* Charon, it is to 
be believed, hath shown small taste for theatricals. 

Aye, now 'tis done. You are just boat weight; 
pura et pitta anima.^ 

But bless me, how little you look! 

So shall we all look — kings and keysars — stripped 
for the last voyage. 

But the murky rogue pushes off. Adieu, pleasant 
and thrice pleasant shade ! with my parting thanks 



340 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

for many a heavy hour of life lightened by thy harm- 
less extravaganzas, public or domestic. 

Rhadamanthus,^ who tries the lighter causes below, 
leaving to his two brethren the heavy calendars — 
honest Rhadamanth, always partial to players, weigh- 
ing their parti-colored existence here upon earth, — 
making account of the few foibles, that may have 
shaded thy real life, as we call it (though, substan- 
tially, scarcely less a vapor than thy idlest vagaries 
upon the boards of Drury) as but of so many echoes, 
natural re-percussions, and results to be expected 
from the assumed extravagances of thy secondary or 
mock life, nightly upon a stage — after a lenient cas- 
tigation, with rods lighter than of those Medusean 
ringlets,^ but just enough to '%hip the offending 
Adam out of thee," shall courteously dismiss thee at 
the right hand gate — the o. p. side of Hades — that 
conducts to masques, and merry-makings, in the The- 
ater Royal of Proserpine.^ 

PLAUDITO, ET VALETO.* 

ELLISTONIANA 

My acquaintance with the pleasant creature, whose 
loss we all deplore, was but slight. 

My first introduction to E., which afterwards rip- 
ened into an acquaintance a little on this side of in- 
timacy, was over a counter in the Leamington Spa 
Library, then newly entered upon by a branch of 
his family. E., whom nothing mis-became — to aus- 



ELLISTONIANA 341 

picate, I suppose, the filial concern, and set it a- 
going with a luster — was serving in person two dam- 
sels fair, who had come into the shop ostensibly to 
inquire for some new publication, but in reality to 
have a sight of the illustrious shopman, hoping some 
conference. With what an air did he reach down the 
volume, dispassionately giving his opinion of the 
worth of the work in question, and launching out 
into a dissertation on its comparative merits with 
those of certain publications of a similar stamp, its 
rivals ! his enchanted customers fairly hanging on 
his lips, subdued to their authoritative sentence. So 
have I seen a gentleman in comedy acting the shop- 
man. So Lovelace ^ sold his gloves in King Street. 
I admired the histrionic art, by which he contrived 
to carry clean away every notion of disgrace, from 
the occupation he had so generously submitted to; 
and from that hour I judged him, with no after re- 
pentance, to be a person, with whom it would be a 
felicity to be more acquainted. 

To descant upon his merits as a Comedian would 
be superflous. With his blended private and pro- 
fessional habits alone I have to do; that harmonious 
fusion of the manners of the player into those of 
everyday life, which brought the stage boards into 
streets, and dining-parlors, and kept up the play 
when the play was ended. — "I like Wrench," a 
friend was saying to him one day, "because he is the 
same natural easy creature, on the stage, that he is 
off.'' "My case exactly," retorted Elliston — with 



342 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

a charming forgetfulness, that the converse of a prop- 
osition does not always lead to the same conclusion — 
''I am the same person off the stage that I am on/' 
The inference, at first sight, seems identical; but ex- 
amine it a little, and it confesses only, that the one 
performer was never, and the other always acting. 
And in truth this was the charm of Elliston's pri- 
vate deportment. You had spirited performance al- 
ways going on before your eyes, with nothing to pay. 
As where a monarch takes up his casual abode for 
a night, the poorest hovel which he honors by his 
sleeping in it, becomes ipso facto for that time a pal- 
ace; so wherever Ellison walked, sat, or stood still, 
there was the theater. He carried about with him his 
pit, boxes, and galleries, and set up his portable play- 
house at corners of streets, and in the market places. 
Upon flintiest pavements he trod the boards still ; and 
if his theme chanced to be passionate, the green baize 
carpet of tragedy spontaneously rose beneath his feet. 
Now this was hearty and showed a love for his art. 
So Appelles ^ always painted — in thought. So G. D.^ 
always poetizes. I hate a lukewarm artist. I have 
known actors — and some of them of Ellison's own 
stamp — who shall have agreeably been amusing you in 
the part of a rake or a coxcomb, through the two or 
three hours of their dramatic existence ; but no sooner 
does the curtain fall with its leaden clatter, but 
a spirit of lead seems to seize on all their faculties. 
They emerge sour, morose persons, intolerable to 
their families, servants, etc. Another shall have been 



ELLISTONIANA 343 

expanding your heart with generous deeds and senti- 
ments, till it even beats with yearnings of universal 
sympathy; you absolutely long to go home, and do 
some good action. The play seems tedious, till you 
can get fairly out of the house, and realize your laud- 
able intentions. At length the final bell rings, and 
this cordial representative of all that is amiable in 
human breasts steps forth — a miser. Elliston was 
more of a piece. Did he play Ranger ? ^ and did Ean- 
ger fill the general bosom of the town with satisfac- 
tion? why should lie not be Ranger, and diffuse the 
same cordial satisfaction among his private circles i 
with his temperament, his animal spirits, his good 
nature, his follies perchance, could he do better than 
identify himself with his impersonation? Are we to 
like a pleasant rake, or coxcomb, on the stage, and 
give ourselves airs of aversion for the identical char- 
acter presented to us in actual life? or what would 
the performer have gained by divesting himself of the 
impersonation? Could the man Elliston have been 
essentially different from his part, even if he had 
avoided to reflect to us studiously, in private circles-, 
the airy briskness, the forwardness, and scape-goat 
trickeries of his prototype ? 

''But there is some thing not natural in this ever- 
lasting acting; we want the real man." 

Are you quite sure that it is not the man himself, 
whom you cannot, or will not see, under some ad- 
ventitious trappings, which, nevertheless, sit not at 
all inconsistently upon him? What if it is the na- 



344 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

ture of some men to be highly artificial? The fault 
is least reprehensible in players. Gibber ^ was his own 
Foppington, with almost as much wit as Vanbrugh 
could add to it. 

"My conceit of his person," — it is Ben Jonson 
speaking of Lord Bacon, — "was never increased to- 
wards him by his place or honors, but I have, and do 
reverence him for the greatness, that was only proper 
to himself; in that he seemed to me ever one of the 
greatest men, that had been in many ages. In his 
adversity I ever prayed that heaven could give him 
strength ; for greatness he could not want. ' ' 

The quality here commended was scarcely less con- 
spicuous in the subject of these idle reminiscences 
than in my Lord Yerulam. Those who have im- 
agined that an unexpected elevation to the direction 
of a great London Theater, affected the consequence 
of Elliston, or at all changed his nature, knew not 
the essential greatness of the man whom they dis- 
parage. It was my fortune to encounter him near St. 
Dunstan's Church (whi^h, with its punctual giants, 
is now no more than dust and a shadow), on the 
morning of his election to that high office. Grasp- 
ing my hand with a look of significance, he only ut- 
tered, — "Have you heard the news?" — then with an- 
other look following up the blow, he subjoined, "I 
am the future Manager of Drury Lane Theater." — 
Breathless as he saw me, he stayed not for congratu- 
lation or reply, but mutely stalked away, leaving me 
to chew upon his new-born dignities at leisure. In 



ELLI8T0NIANA 345 

fact, nothing could be said to it. Expressive silence 
alone could muse his praise. This was in his great 
style. 

But was he less great (be witness, ye Powers of 
Equanimity, that supported in the ruins of Carthage 
the consular exile,^ and more recently transmuted for 
a more illustrious exile,- the barren constableship of 
Elba, into an image of Imperial France), when, in 
melancholy after-years, again, much near the same 
spot, I met him, when that scepter had been wrested 
from his hand, and his dominion was curtailed to the 
petty managership, and part proprietorship, of the 
small Olympic,^ his Elba? He still played nightly 
upon the boards of Drury, but in parts alas ! allotted 
to him, not magnificently distributed by him. Waiv- 
ing his great loss as nothing, and magnificently sink- 
ing the sense of fallen material grandeur in the more 
liberal resentment of depreciations done to his more 
lofty intellectual pretensions. ''Have you heard" 
(his customary exordium) — ''have you heard," said 
he, "how they treat me? they put me in comedy. '^ 
Thought I — but his finger on his lips forbade any 
verbal interruption — "where could they have put you 
better?" Then, after a pause — "Where I formerly 
played Romeo, I now play Mercutio," — and so again 
he stalked away, neither staying, nor caring for, re- 
sponses. 

0, it was a rich scene, — ^but Sir A C ,^ the 

best of story-tellers and surgeons, who mends a lame 
narrative almost as well as he sets a fracture, alone 



346 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

could do justice to it, — that I was a witness to, in the 
tarnished room (that had once been green) of that 
same little Olympic. There, after his deposition from 
Imperial Drury, he substituted a throne. That 
Olympic Hill was his "highest heaven;" himself 
"Jove in his chair." There he sat in state, while 
before him, on complaint of prompter, was brought 
for judgment — how shall I describe her? — one of 
those little tawdry things that flirt at the tails of 
choruses — a probationer for the town, in either of its 
senses — the pertest little drab — a dirty fringe and 
appendage of the lamp's smoke — who, it seems, on 
some disapprobation expressed by a "highly respec- 
table" audience, — had precipitately quitted her sta- 
tion on the boards, and withdrawn her small talents 
in disgust. 

"And how dare you," said her manager,^ — assum- 
ing a censorial severity, which would have crushed 
the confidence of a Vestris,^ and disarmed that beauti- 
ful Rebel herself of her professional caprices-- 1 
verily believe, he thought her standing before him — 
"how dare you, Madame, withdraw yourself, without 
a notice, from your theatrical duties?" "I was 
hissed, Sir." "And you have the presumption to 
decide upon the taste of the town?" "I don't know 
that, Sir, but I will never stand to be hissed," was 
the sub joinder of young Confidence — when gathering 
up his features into one significant mass of wonder, 
pity, and expostulatory indignation — in a lesson 
never to have been lost upon a creature less forward 



ELLISTONIANA - 347 

than she who stood before him — his words were these : 
"They have hissed me." 

'Twas the identical argument a fortiori,^ which the 
son of Peleus uses to Lycaon ^ trembling nnder his 
lance, to persuade him to take his destiny with a good 
grace. ' ' I too am mortal. ' ' And it is to be believed 
that in both cases the rhetoric missed of its applica- 
tion, for want of a proper understanding with the 
faculties of the respective recipients. 

"Quite an Opera pit," he said to me, as he was 
courteously conducting me over the benches of his 
Surrey Theater,^ the last retreat, and recess, of his 
every-day waning grandeur. 

Those who knew Ellison, will know the manner in 
which he pronounced the latter sentence of the few 
words I am about to record. One proud day to me 
he took his roast mutton with us in the Temple, to 
which I had superadded a preliminary haddock. Af- 
ter a rather plentiful partaking of the me:ager ban- 
quet, not unrefreshed with the humbler sort of liq- 
uors, I made a sort of apology for the humility of the 
fare, observing that for my own part I never ate but 
one dish at dinner. "I too never eat but one thing 
at dinner," — was his reply — then after a pause — 
"reckoning fish as nothing." The manner was all. 
It was as if by one peremptory sentence he had de- 
creed the annihilation of all the savory esculents, 
which the pleasant and nutritious food-giving Ocean 
pours forth upon poor humans from her watery 
bosom. This was greatness, tempered with consider- 



348 . TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

ate tenderness to the feelings of liis scanty but wel- 
coming entertainer. 

Gt^eat wert thou in thy life, Robert William Ellis- 
ton ! and not lessened in death, if report speak truly, 
which says that thou didst direct that thy mortal re- 
mains should repose under no inscription but one of 
pure Latinity. Classical was thy bringing up ! and 
beautiful was the feeling on thy last bed, which con- 
necting the man with the boy, took thee back to thy 
latest exercise of imagination, to the days when, un- 
dreaming of Theaters and Managerships, thou wert a 
scholar, and an early ripe one, under the roofs builded 
by the munificent and pious Colet.^ For thee the 
Pauline Muses weep. In elegies, that shall silence this 
crude prose, they shall celebrate thy praise. 

THE OLD MARGATE HOY 

I AM fond of passing my vacation (I believe I have 
said so before) at one or other of the Universities. 
Next to these my choice would fix me at some woody 
spot, such as the neighborhood of Henley affords in 
abundance, on the banks of my beloved Thames. 
But somehow or other my cousin contrives to wheedle 
me once in three or four seasons to a watering-place. 
Old attachments cling to her in spite of experience. 
We have been dull at Worthing one summer, duller 
at Brighton another, dullest at Eastbourn a third, 
and are at this moment doing dreary penance at — 
Hastings ! — and all because we were happy many 



THE OLD MARGATE HOY 349 

■years ago for a brief week at Margate. That was 
our first sea-side experiment, and many circumstances 
combined to make it the most agreeable holyday of 
my life. We had neither of us seen the sea, and we 
had never been from home so long together in com- 
pany. 

Can I forget thee, thou old Margate Hoy, with thy 
weather-beaten, sun-burnt captain, and his rough ac- 
commodations — ill-exchanged for the foppery and 
fresh-water niceness of the modern steam packet? 
To the winds and waves thou committedst thy goodly 
freightage, and didst ask no aid of magic fumes, and 
spells, and boiling cauldrons. With the gales of 
heaven thou wentest swimmingly ; or, when it was their 
pleasure, stoodest still with sailor-like patience. Thy 
course was natural, not forced, as in a hot-bed; nor 
didst thou go poisoning the breath of ocean with sul- 
phurous smoke — a great sea-chimgera, chimneying 
and furnacing the deep ; or liker to that fire-god 
parching up Scamander.^ 

Can I forget thy honest, yet slender crew, with their 
coy reluctant responses (yet to the suppression of 
anything like contempt) to the raw questions, which 
we of the great city would be ever and anon putting 
to them as to the uses of this or that strange naval 
implement ? 'Specially can I forget thee, thou happy 
medium, thou shade of refuge between us and them, 
conciliating interpreter of their skill to our sim- 
plicity, comfortable ambassador between sea and 
land! — whose sailor-trousers did not more con vine- 



350 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

ingiy assure thee to be an adopted denizen of the 
former, and thy white cap and whiter apron over 
them, with thy neat-fingered practice in thy, culinary 
vocation, bespoke thee to have been of inland nature 
heretofore — a master cook of East cheap? How bus- 
ily didst thou ply thy multifarious occupation, cook, 
mariner, attendant, chamberlain : here, there, like 
another Ariel,^ flaming at once about all parts of the 
deck, yet with kindlier ministration — not to assist the 
tempest, but, as if touched with a kindred sense of 
our infirmities, to sooth the qualms which that un- 
tried motion might haply raise in our crude land- 
fancies. And when the o'er-washing billows drove 
us below deck (for it was far gone in October, and 
we had stiff and blowing weather) how did thy offi- 
cious ministerings, still catering for our comfort, with 
cards, and cordials, and thy more cordial conversa- 
tion, alleviate the closeness and the confinement of 
thy else (truth to say) not very savory, nor very in- 
viting, little cabin! 

With these additaments to boot, we had on board 
a fellow-passenger, whose discourse in verity might 
have beguiled a longer voyage than we meditated, 
and have made mirth and wonder abound as far as 
the Azores.^ He was a dark Spanish-complexioned 
young man, remarkably handsome, with an officer- 
like assurance, and an insuppressible volubility of as- 
sertion. He was, in fact, the greatest liar I had met 
with then, or since. He was none of your hesitating, 
half story-tellers (a most painful description of mor- 



THE OLD MARGATE HOY 351 

tals) who go on sounding your belief, and only giv- 
ing you as much as they see you can swallow at a 
time — the nibbling pickpockets of your patience — but 
one who committed downright, day-light depreda- 
tions upon his neighbor's faith. He did not stand 
shivering upon the brink, but was a hearty, thorough- 
paced liar, and plunged at once into the depths of your 
credulity. I partly believe, he made pretty sure of 
his company. Not many rich, not many wise, or 
learned, composed at that time the common stowage 
of a Margate packet. We were, I am afraid, a set of 
as unseasoned Londoners (let our enemies give it a 
worse name) as Aldermanbury, or Watling Street, 
at that time of day could have supplied. There 
might be an exception or two among us, but I scorn 
to make any invidious distinctions among such 
a jolly, companionable ship's company, as those were 
whom I sailed with. Something too must be conceded 
to the Genius Loci} Had the confident fellow told us 
half the legends on land, which he favored us with on 
the other element, I flatter myself the good sense of 
most of us would have revolted. But we were in a 
new world, with everything unfamiliar about us, and 
the time and place disposed us to the reception of 
any prodigious marvel whatsoever. Time has oblit- 
erated from my memory much of his wild f ablings; 
and the rest would appear but dull, as written, and 
to be read on shore. He had been Aide-de-camp 
(among other rare accidents and fortunes) to a Per- 
sian prince, and at one blow had stricken off the 



3.52 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

head oi the King of Carimania on horseback. He, 
of course, married the Prince's daughter. I forget 
what unlucky turn in the politics of that court, com- 
bining with the loss of his consort, was the reason of 
his quitting Persia; but with the rapidity of a magi- 
cian, he transported himself, along with his hearers, 
back to England, where he still found him in the 
confidence of great ladies. There was some story of 
a Princess — Elizabeth, if I remember — having in- 
trusted to his care an extraordinary casket of jewels, 
upon some extraordinary occasion — ^but, as I am not 
certain of the name or circumstance at this distance 
of time, I must leave it to the Royal daughters of 
England to settle the honor among themselves in pri- 
vate. I cannot call to mind half his pleasant won- 
ders ; but I perfectly remember, that in the course of 
his travels he had seen a phoenix; and he obligingly 
undeceived us of the vulgar error, that there is but one 
of that species at a time, assuring us that they were 
not uncommon in some parts of Upper Egypt. Hith- 
erto he had found the most implicit listeners. His 
dreaming fancies had transported us beyond the "ig- 
norant present." But when (still hardy ing more and 
more in his triumphs over our simplicity), he went 
on to affirm that he had actually sailed through the 
legs of the Colossus at Rhodes,^ it really became neces- 
sary to make a stand. And here I must do justice to 
the good sense and intrepidity of one of our party, 
a youth, that had hitherto been one of his most defer- 
ential auditors, who, from his recent reading, made 



THE OLD MARGATE HOY 353 

bold to assure the gentleman, that there must be some 
mistake, as "the Colossus in question had been de- 
stroyed long since ; " to whose opinion, delivered with 
all modesty our hero was obliging enough to concede 
thus much, ' ' the figure was indeed a little damaged. ' ' 
This was the only opposition he met with, and it did 
not at all seem to stagger him, for he proceeded with 
his fables which the same youth appeared to swallow 
with still more complacency than ever, — confirmed, 
as it were, by the extreme candor of that concession. 
With these prodigies he wheedled us on till we came in 
sight of the Reculvers,^ which one of our own com- 
pany (having been the voyage before) immediately 
recognizing, and pointing out to us, was considered by 
us as no ordinary seaman. 

All this time sat upon the edge of the deck quite 
a different character. It was a lad, apparently very 
poor, very infirm, and very patient. His eye was 
ever on the sea, with a smile; and, if he caught now 
and then some snatches of these wild legends, it was 
by accident, and they seemed not to concern him. The 
waves to him whispered more pleasant stories. He 
was as one, being with us, but not of us. He heard 
the bell of dinner ring without stirring; and when 
some of us pulled out our private stores — our cold 
meat and our salads — he produced none, and seemed 
to want none. Only a solitary biscuit he had laid in ; 
provision for the one or two days and nights, to which 
these vessels then were oftentimes obliged to pro- 
long their voyage. Upon a nearer acquaintance with 



354 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

him, which he seemed neither to court nor decline, 
we learned that he was going to Margate, with the 
hope of being admitted into the Infirmary there for 
sea-bathing. His disease was a scrofula, which ap- 
peared to have eaten all over him. He expressed 
great hopes of a cure; and when we asked him, 
whether he had any friends where he was going, he 
replied, "he had no friends." 

These pleasant, and some mournful passages with 
the first sight of the sea, co-operating with youth, 
and a sense of holydays, and out-of-door adventure, 
to me that had been pent up in populous cities for 
many months before, — have left upon my mind the 
fragrance as of summer days gone by, bequeathing 
nothing but their remembrance for cold and wintry 
hours to chew upon. 

Will it be thought a digression (it may spare some 
unwelcome comparisons), if I endeavor to account 
for the dissatisfaction which I have heard so many 
persons confess to have felt (as I did myself feel in 
part on this occasion), at the sight of the sea for the 
first time? I think the reason usually given — re- 
ferring to the incapacity of actual objects for satis- 
fying our preconceptions of them — scarcely goes deep 
enough into the question. Let the same person see 
a lion, an elephant, a mountain, for the first time 
in his life, and he shall perhaps feel himself a little 
mortified. The things do not fill up that space, which 
the idea of them seemed to take up in his mind.. But 
they have still a correspondency to his first notion, 



THE OLD MARGATE HOY 355 

and in time grow up to it, so as to produce a very 
similar impression: enlarging themselves (if I may 
say so) upon familiarity. But the sea remains a dis- 
appointment. — Is it not, that in the latter we had ex- 
pected to behold (absurdly, I grant, but, I am afraid, 
by the law of imagination unavoidably) not a defi- 
nite object, as those wild beasts, or that mountain 
compassable by the eye, but all the sea at once, the 

COMMENSURATE ANTAGONIST OP THE EARTH? I do 

not say we tell ourselves so much, but the craving of 
the mind is to be satisfied with nothing less. I will 
suppose the case of a young person of fifteen (as I 
then was) knowing nothing of the sea, but from de- 
scription. He comes to it for the first time— all 
that he has been reading of it all his life, and that 
the most enthusiastic part of life,— all he has gathered 
from narratives of wandering seamen; what he has 
gained from true voyages, and what he cherishes as 
credulously from romance and poetry ; crowding their 
images, and exacting strange tributes from expecta- 
tion.— He thinks of the great deep, and of those who 
go down unto it ; of its thousand isles, and of the vast 
continents it washes; of its receiving the mighty 
Plate, or Orellana,^ into its bosom, without disturb- 
ance, or sense of augmentation ; of Biscay swells, and 
the mariner 

For many a day, and many a dreadful night. 
Incessant laboring, round the stormy Cape ; 2 

of fatal rocks, and the ''still-vexed Bermoothes ; " ^ of 
great whirlpools, and the water-spout; of sunken 



356 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

ships, and sumless treasures swallowed up in the un- 
restoring depths: of fishes and quaint monsters, to 
which all that is terrible on earth — 

Be but as buggs to frighten babes withal, 
Compared with the creatures in the sea's entral ; i 

of naked savages, and Juan Fernandez ; - of pearls, 
and shells; of coral beds, and of enchanted isles; of 
mermaids' grots — 

I do not assert that in sober earnest he expects to 
be shown all these wonders at once, but he is under 
the tyranny of a mighty faculty, which haunts him 
with confused hints and shadows of all these ; and 
when the actual object opens first upon him, seen (in 
tame weather too most likely) from our unromantic 
coasts — a speck, a slip of sea-water, as it shows to 
him — ^what can it prove but a very unsatisfying and 
even diminutive entertainment? Or if he has come 
to it from the mouth of a river, was it much more 
than the river widening? and, even out of sight of 
land, what had he but a flat watery horizon about 
him, nothing comparable to the vast o 'er-curtaining 
sky, his familiar object, seen daily without dread or 
amazement? — Who, in similar circumstances, has not 
been tempted to exclaim with Charoba, in the poem 
of Gebir. 

Is this the mighty ocean? is this all? ^ 

I love town, or country; but this detestable Cinque 
Port is neither. I hate these scrubbed shoots. 



THE OLD MARGATE HOY 357 

thrusting out their starved foliage from between 
the horrid fissures of dusty innutritions rocks; which 
the amateur calls ''verdure to the edge of the sea." 
I require woods, and they show me stunted coppices. 
I cry out for the water-brooks, and pant for fresh 
streams, and inland murmurs. I cannot stand all 
day on the naked beach, watching the capricious 
hues of the sea, shifting like the colors of a dying 
mullet. I am tired of looking out at the windows 
of this island-prison. I would fain retire into the 
interior of my cage. While I gaze upon the sea, I 
want to be on it, over it, across it. It binds me in 
with chains, as of iron. My thoughts are abroad. 
I should not so feel in Staffordshire. There is no 
home for me here. There is no sense of home at 
Hastings. It is a place of fugitive resort, an hetero- 
geneous assemblage of sea-mews and stock-brokers, 
Amphitrites ^ of the town, and misses that coquet with 
the Ocean. If it were what it was in its primitive 
shape, and what it ought to have remained, a fair 
honest fishing-town, and no more, it were something 
— with a few straggling fishermen's huts scattered 
about, artless as its cliffs, and with their materials 
filched from them, it were something. I could abide 
to dwell with Meschek ; ^ to assort with fisher-swains, 
and smugglers. There are, or I dream there are, 
many of this latter occupation here. Their faces 
become the place. I like a smuggler. He is the only 
honest thief. He robs nothing but the revenue, — 
an abstraction I never greatly cared about. I could 



358 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

go out with them in their mackerel boats, or about 
their less ostensible business, with some satisfaction. 
I can even tolerate those poor victims to monotony, 
who from day to day pace along the beach, in end- 
less progress and recurrence, to watch their illicit 
countrymen — townsfolk or brethren perchance — 
whistling to the sheathing and unsheathing of their 
cutlasses (their only solace), who, under the mild 
name of preventive service, keep up a legitimate civil 
warfare in the deplorable absence of a foreign one, 
to show their detestation of run hoUands and zeal" 
for old England. But it is the visitants from town, 
that come here to say that they have been here, with 
no more relish of the sea than a pond perch, or a 
dace might be supposed to have, that are my aver- 
sion. I feel like a foolish dace in these regions, and 
have as little toleration for myself here, as for them. 
What can they want here? if they had a true relish 
of the ocean, why have they brought all this land 
luggage with them ? or why pitch their civilized tents 
in the desert? What mean these scanty book-rooms 
— ^marine libraries as they entitle them — if the sea 
were, as they would have us believe, a book "to read 
strange matter in?" what are their foolish concert- 
rooms, if they come, as they would fain be thought 
to do, to listen to the music of the waves? All is 
false and hollow pretension. They come, because it 
is the fashion, and to spoil the nature of the place. 
They are mostly, as I have said, stock-brokers; but 
I have watched the better sort of them — now and 



THE OLD MARGATE HOY 359 

then, an honest citizen (of the old stamp), in the 
simplicity of his heart, shall bring down his wife and 
daughters, to taste the sea breezes. I always know the 
date of their arrival. It is easy to see it in their 
countenance. A day or two they go wandering on 
the shingles, picking up cockle-shells, and thinking 
them great things; but, in a poor week, imagination 
slackens : they begin to discover that cockles produce 
no pearls, and then — then ! — if I could interpret 
for the pretty creatures, (I know they have not the 
courage to confess it themselves) how gladly would 
they exchange their sea-side rambles for a Sunday 
walk on the green-sward of their accustomed Twick- 
enham meadows! 

I would ask of one of these sea-charmed emigrants, 
who think they truly love the sea, with its wild 
usages, what would their feelings be, if some of the 
unsophisticated aborigines of this place, encouraged 
by their courteous questionings here, should venture, 
on the faith of such assured sympathy between them, 
to return the visit, and come up to see — London. I 
must imagine them with their fishing-tackle on their 
back, as we carry our town necessaries. What a sen- 
sation would it cause in Lothbury? Wliat vehement 
laughter would it not excite among 

The daughters of Clieapside and wives of Lombard Street. 

I am sure that no town-bred, or inland-born sub- 
jects, can feel their true and natural nourishment at 
these sea-places. Nature, where she does not mean 



360 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

■QS for mariners and vagabonds, bids ns stay at home. 
The salt foam seems to nourish a spleen. I am not 
half so good-natured as by the milder waters of my 
natural river. I would exchange these sea-gulls for 
swans, and scud a swallow for ever about the banks 
of Thamesis. 



THE CONVALESCENT 

A PRETTY severe fit of indisposition which, under the 
name of a nervous fever, has made a prisoner of me 
for some weeks past, and is but slowly leaving me, 
has reduced me to an incapacity of reflecting upon 
any topic foreign to itself. Expect no healthy con- 
clusions from me this month, reader; I can offer you 
only sick men's dreams. 

And truly the whole state of sickness is such; for 
what else is it but a magnificent dream for a man 
to lie a-bed, and draw daylight curtains about him; 
and, shutting out the sun, to induce a total oblivion 
of all the works which are going on under it? To 
become insensible to all the operations of life, except 
the beatings of one feeble pulse? 

If there be a regal solitude, it is a sick bed. How 
the patient lords it there ; what caprices he acts with- 
out control ! how king-like he sways his pillow — 
tumbling, and tossing, and shifting, and lowering, 
and thumping, and flatting, and molding it, to the 
ever varying requisitions of his throbbing temples. 

He changes sides oftener than a politician. Now 



THE CONVALESCENT 361 

he lies full length, then half-length, obliquely, trans- 
versely, head and feet quite across the bed ; and none 
accuses him of tergiversation. Within the four cur- 
tains he is absolute. They are his Mare Clausum.^ 

How sickness enlarges the dimensions of a man's 
self to himself! he is his own exclusive object. Su- 
preme selfishness is inculcated upon him as his only 
duty. 'Tis the Two Tables of the Law ^ to him. He 
has nothing to think of but how to get well ! "What 
passes out of doors, or within them, so he hear not 
the jarring of them, affects him not. 

A little while ago he was greatly concerned in the 
event of a law-suit, which was to be the making or 
the marring of his dearest friend. He was to be seen 
trudging about upon this man's errand to fifty quar- 
ters of the town at once, jogging this witness, re- 
freshing that solicitor. The cause was to come on 
yesterday. He is absolutely as indifferent to the 
decision, as if it were a question to be tried at Pekin. 
Peradventure from some whispering, going on about 
the house, not intended for his hearing, he picks up 
enough to make him understand, that things went 
cross-grained in the Court yesterday, and his friend 
is ruined. But the word "friend," and the word 
"ruin," disturb him no more than so much jargon. 
He is not to think of anything but how to get bet- 
ter. 

What a world of foreign cares are merged in that 
absorbing consideration ! 

He has put on his strong armor of sickness, he is 



362 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

wrapped in the callous hide of suffering, he keeps 
his sympathy, like some curious vintage, under trusty 
lock and key, for his own use only. 

He lies pitying himself, honing and moaning to 
himself; he yearneth over himself; his bowels are 
even " melted within him, to think what he suffers ; 
he is not ashamed to weep over himself. 

He is for ever plotting how to do some good to 
himself; studying little stratagems and artificial al- 
leviations. 

He makes the most of himself; dividing himself 
by an allowable fiction, into as many distinct indi- 
viduals, as he hath sore and sorrowing members. 
Sometimes he meditates — as of a thing apart from 
him — upon his poor aching head, and that dull pain 
which, dozing or waking, lay in it all the past night 
like a log, or palpable substance of pain, not to be 
removed without opening the very skull, as it seemed, 
to take it thence. Or he pities his long, clammy, 
attenuated fingers. He compassionates himself all 
over; and his bed is a very discipline of humanity, 
and tender heart. 

He is his own sympathizer; and instinctively feels 
that none can so well perform that office for him. 
He cares for few spectators to his tragedy. Only 
that punctual face of the old nurse pleases him, that 
announces his broths, and his cordials. He likes it 
because it is so unmoved, and because he can pour 
forth his feverish ejaculations before it as unre- 
servedly as to his bed-post. 



TEE CONVALESCENT 363 

To the world 's business he is dead. He under- 
stands not what the callings and occupations of mor- 
tals are; only he has a glimmering conceit of some 
such thing, when the doctor makes his daily call; 
and even in the lines on that busy face he reads no 
multiplicity of patients, but solely conceives of him- 
self as the sicjc man. To what other uneasy couch 
the good man is hastening, when he slips out of his 
chamber, folding up his thin douceur so carefully 
for fear of rustling — is no speculation which he can 
at present entertain. He thinks only of the regular 
return of the same phenomenon at the same hour 
to-morrow. 

Household rumors touch him not. Some faint 
murmur, indicative of life going on within the house, 
soothes him, while he knows not distinctly what it 
is. Pie is not to know anything, not to think of 
anything. Servants gliding up or down the distant 
staircase, treading as upon velvet, gently keep his 
ear awake, so long as he troubles not himself further 
than with some feeble guess at their errands. Ex- 
acter knowledge would be a burthen to him : he can 
just endure the pressure of conjecture. He opens 
his eye faintly at the dull stroke of the muffled 
knocker, and closes it again without asking "Who 
was it?" He is flattered by a general notion that 
inquiries are making after him, but he cares not to 
know the name of the inquirer. In the general still- 
ness, and awful hush of the house, he lies in state, 
and feels his sovereignty. 



364 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

To be sick is to enjoy monarchal prerogatives. 
Compare the silent tread, and quiet ministry, almost 
by the eye only, with which he is served — with the 
careless demeanor, the unceremonious goings in and 
out (slapping of doors, or leaving them open) of the 
very same attendants, when he is getting a little bet- 
ter — and you will confess, that from the bed of sick- 
ness (throne let me rather call it) to the elbow chair 
of convalescence, is a fall from dignity, amounting 
to a deposition. 

How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pris- 
tine stature! where is now the space, which he occu- 
pied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye? 

The scene of his regalities, his sick room, which 
was his presence chamber, where he lay and acted 
his despotic fancies — ^how is it reduced to a common 
bed-room ! The trimness of the very bed has some- 
thing petty and unmeaning about it. It is made 
every day. How unlike to that wavy many-fur- 
rowed, oceanic surface, which it presented so short 
a time since, when to make it was a service not to be 
thought of at oftener than three or four day revo- 
lutions, when the patient was with pain and grief to 
be lifted for a little while out of it, to submit to 
the encroachments of unwelcome neatness, and de- 
cencies which his shaken frame deprecated; then to 
be lifted into it again, for another three or four days ' 
respite, to flounder it out of shape again, while every 
fresh furrow was a historical record of some shifting 
posture, some uneasy turning, some seeking for a 



THE CONVALESCENT 365 

little ease ; and the shrunken skin scarce told a truer 
story than the crumpled coverlid. 

Hushed are those mysterious sights — those groans 
— so much more awful, while we knew not from what 
caverns of vast hidden suffering they proceeded. 
The Lernean ^ pangs are quenched. The riddle of 
sickness is solved ; and Philoctetes ^ is become an 
ordinary personage. 

Perhaps some relic of the sick man's dream of 
greatness survives in the still lingering visitations 
of the medical attendant. But how is he too changed 
with everything else ! Can this be he — this man of 
news — of chat — of anecdote — of everything but physic 
— can this be he, who so lately came between the pa- 
tient and his cruel enemy, as on some solemn embassy 
from Nature, erecting herself into a high mediating 
party? — Pshaw! 'tis some old woman. 

Farewell with him all that made sickness pom- 
pous — the spell that hushed the household — the 
desert-like stillness, felt throughout its inmost cham- 
bers — the mute attendance — the inquiry by looks — 
the still softer delicacies of self-attention — the sole 
and single eye of distemper alonely fixed upon itself 
— world-thoughts excluded — the man a world unto 
himself — his own theater — 

What a speck is he dwindled into! 

In this flat swamp of convalescence, left by the 
ebb of sickness, yet far enough from the terra firma 
of established health, your note, dear Editor, reached 



366 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

me, requesting — an article. In Articulio Mortis,^ 
thought I ; but it is something hard — and the quibble, 
wretched as it was, relieved me. The summons, un- 
seasonable as it appeared, seemed to link me on again 
to the petty businesses of life, which I had lost sight 
of ; a gentle call to activity, however trivial ; a whole- 
some weaning from that preposterous dream of self- 
absorption — the puffy state of sickness — in which I 
confess to have lain so long, insensible to the maga- 
zines and monarchies, of the world alike; to its laws 
and to its literature. The hypochondriac flatus is 
subsiding; the acres, which in imagination I had 
spread over — for the sick man swells in the sole con- 
templation of his single sufferings, till he becomes a 
Tityus ^ to himself — are wasting to a span ; and for 
the giant of self-importance, which I was so lately, 
you have me once again in my natural pretensions — 
the lean and meager figure of your insignificant Es- 
sayist. 

SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS 

So far from the position holding true, that great 
wit (or genius, in our modern way of speaking) has 
a necessary alliance with insanity, the greatest wits, 
on the contrary, will ever be found to be the sanest 
writers. It is impossible for the mind to conceive a 
mad Shakspeare. The greatness of wit, by which 
the poetic talent is here chiefly to be understood, 
manifests itself in the admirable balance of all the 



SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS 367 

faculties. Madness is the disproportionate straining 
or excess of any one of them. "So strong a wit," 
says Cowley, speaking of a poetical friend, 

" — did Nature to him frame, 
As all things but his judgment overcame; 
His judgment like the heavenly moon did show, 
Tempering that mighty sea below." 

The ground of the mistake is, that men, finding in 
the raptures of the higher poetry a condition of 
exaltation, to which they have no parallel in their 
own experience, besides the spurious resemblance of 
it in dreams and fevers, impute a state of dreaminess 
and fever to the poet. But the true poet dreams 
being awake. He is not possessed by his subject, but 
has dominion over it. In the groves of Eden he 
walks familiar as in his native paths. He ascends 
the empyrean heaven, and is not intoxicated. He 
treads the burning marl without dismay; he wins 
his flight without self-loss through realms of chaos 
"and old night." Or if, abandoning himself to that 
severer chaos of a "human mind untuned," he is 
content awhile to be mad with Lear, or to hate man- 
kind (a sort of madness) with Timon,^ neither is that 
madness, nor this misanthropy, so unchecked, but 
that, — never letting the reins of reason wholly go, 
while most he seems to do so, — he has his better 
genius still whispering at his ear, with the good serv- 
ant Kent ^ suggesting saner counsels, or with the hon- 
est steward Flavins recommending kindlier resolu- 



368 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

tions. Where he seems most to recede from human- 
ity, he will be found the truest to it. From beyond 
the scope of Nature if he summon possible existences, 
he subjugates them to the law of her consistency. 
He is beautifully loyal to that sovereign directress, 
even when he appears most to betray and desert her. 
His ideal tribes submit to policy; his very monsters 
are tamed to his hand, even as that wild sea-brood, 
shepherded by Proteus.^ He tames and he clothes 
them with attributes of flesh and blood, till they won- 
der at themselves, like Indian Islanders forced to 
submit to European vesture. Caliban,- the Witches, 
are as true to the laws of their own nature (ours 
with a difference), as Othello, Hamlet, and Macbeth. 
Herein the great and the little wits are differenced ; 
that if the latter wander ever so little from nature 
or actual existence, they lose themselves, and their 
readers. Their phantoms are lawless; their visions 
nightmares. They do not create, which implies 
shaping and consistency. Their imaginations are 
not active — for to be active is to call something into 
act and form — but passive, as men in sick dreams. 
For the super-natural, or something super-added to 
what we know of nature, they give you the plainly 
non-natural. And if this were all, and that these 
mental hallucinations were discoverable only in the 
treatment of subjects out of nature, or transcending 
it, the judgment might with some plea be pardoned 
if it ran riot, and a little wantonized : but even in 
the describing of real and everyday life, that which 



SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS 369 

is before their eyes, one of these lesser wits shall 
more deviate from nature — show more of that incon- 
sequence, which has a natural alliance with frenzy, — 
than a great genius in his ''maddest fits," as Wither ^ 
somewhere calls them. We appeal to any one that is 
acquainted with the common run of Lane 's ^ novels, — 
as they existed some twenty or thirty years back, — 
those scanty intellectual viands of the whole female 
reading public, till a happier genius arose, and ex- 
pelled for ever the innutritions phantoms, — whether 
he has not found his brain more "betossed," his 
memory more puzzled, his sense of when and where 
more confounded, among the improbable events, the 
incoherent incidents, the inconsistent characters, or 
no-characters, of some third-rate love intrigue — 
where the persons shall be a Lord Glendamour and 
a Miss Rivers, and the scene only alternate between 
Bath and Bond Street — a more bewildering dreami- 
ness induced upon him, than he has felt wandering 
over all the fairy grounds of Spenser. In the pro- 
ductions we refer to, nothing but names and places 
is familiar; the persons are neither of this world nor 
of any other conceivable one; an endless string of 
activities without purpose, or purposes destitute of 
motive: — ^we meet phantoms in our known walks; 
fantasques only christened. In the poet we have 
names which announce fiction; and we have abso- 
lutely no place at all, for the things and persons of 
the Fairy Queen prate not of their ''whereabout." 
But in their inner nature, and the law of their speech 



370 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

and actions^ we are at home and upon acquainted 
ground. The one turns life into a dream; the other 
to the wildest dreams gives the sobrieties of every- 
day occurrences. By what subtile art of tracing the 
mental processes it is effected, we are not philosophers 
enough to explain, but in that wonderful episode of 
the cave of Mammon,^ in which the Money God ap- 
pears first in the lowest form of a miser, is then a 
worker of metals, and becomes the god of all the 
treasures of the world: and has a daughter, Ambi- 
tion, before whom all the world kneels for favors — 
with the Hesperian fruit,^ the waters of Tantalus,^ 
with Pilate washing his hands vainly, but not imper- 
tinently, in the same stream — that we should be at one 
moment in the cave of an old hoarder of treasures, at 
the next at the forge of the Cyclops,* in a palace and 
yet in hell, all at once, with the shifting mutations of 
the most rambling dream, and our judgment yet all 
the time awake, and neither able nor willing to de- 
tect the fallacy, — is a proof of that hidden sanity 
which still guides the poet in the widest seeming 
aberrations. 

It is not enough to say that the whole episode is 
a copy of the mind's conceptions in sleep; it is, in 
some sort — but what a copy ! Let the most romantic 
of us, that has been entertained all night with the 
spectacle of some wild and magnificent vision, re- 
combine it in the morning, and try it by his waking 
judgment. That which appeared so shifting, and yet 
so coherent, while that faculty was passive, when it 



CAPTAIN JACKSON 371 

comes under cool examination, shall appear so 
reasonless and so unlinked, that we are ashamed to 
have been so deluded; and to have taken, though but 
in sleep, a monster for a god. But the transitions 
in this episode are every whit as violent as in the 
most extravagant dream, and yet the waking judg- 
ment ratifies them. 

CAPTAIN JACKSON 

Among the deaths in our obituary for this month, 
I observe with concern, ''At his cottage on the Bath 
Road, Captain Jackson." The name and the at- 
tribution are common enough; but a feeling like re- 
proach persuades me, that this could have been no 
other in fact than my dear old friend, who some 
five-and-twenty years ago rented a tenement, which 
he was pleased to dignify with the appellation here 
used, about a mile from Westbourn Green. Alack, 
how good men, and the good turns they do us, slide 
out of memory, and are recalled but by the surprise 
of some such sad memento as that which now lies 
before us! 

He whom I mean was a retired half-pay officer, 
with a wife and two grown-up daughters, whom he 
maintained with the port and notions of gentle- 
women upon that slender professional allowance. 
Comely girls they were too. 

And was I in danger of forgetting this, man? — his 
cheerful suppers — the noble tone of hospitality, when 



372 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

first you set your foot in the cottage — the anxious 
ministerings about you, where little or nothing (God 
knows) was to be ministered. — Althea's horn ^ in a 
poor platter — the power of self-enchantment, by 
which, in his magnificent wishes to entertain you, 
he multiplied his means to bounties. 

You saw with your bodily eyes indeed what seemed 
a bare scrag — cold savings from the foregone meal — 
remnant hardly sufficient to send a medicant from 
the door contented. But in the copious will — the 
reveling imagination of your host — the "mind, the 
mind, Master Shallow, ' ' ^ whole beeves were spread 
before you — hecatombs — no end appeared to the 
profusion. 

It was the widow's cruse — the loaves and fishes; 
carving could not lessen nor helping diminish it — 
the stamina were left — the elemental bone still 
flourished, divested of its accidents. 

"Let us live while we can," methinks I hear the 
open-handed creature exclaim; "while we have, let 
us not want;" "here is plenty left;" "want for 
nothing" — with many more such hospitable sayings, 
the spurs of appetite, and old concomitants of smok- 
ing boards, and feast-oppressed charges. Then slid- 
ing a slender ratio of Single Gloucester upon his 
wife's plate, or the daughters', he would convey the 
remnant rind into his own, with a merry quirk of 
"the nearer the bone," &c., and declaring that he 
universally preferred the- outside. For we had our 
table distinctions, you ^re to know, and some of us 



CAPTAIN JACKSON 373 

in a manner sat above the salt. None but his 
guest or guests dreamed of tasting flesh luxuries at 
night, the fragments were vere hospitihus sacra} But 
of one thing or another there was always enough, 
and leavings: only he would sometimes ^finish the 
remainder crust, to show that he wished no savings. 

Wine we had none; nor, except on very rare oc- 
casions, spirits; but the sensation of wine was 
there. Some thin kind of ale I remember — ^'British 
beverage," he would say. "Push about, my boys;" 
' ' Drink to your sweethearts, girls. ' ' At every meager 
draught a tost must ensue, or a song. All the forms 
of good liquor were there, with none of the effects 
wanting. Shut your eyes, and you would swear a 
capacious bowl of punch was foaming in the center, 
with beams of generous Port or Madeira radiating 
to it from each of the table corners. You got flus- 
tered without knowing whence; tipsy upon words; 
and reeled under the potency of his unperforming 
Bacchanalian encouragements.^ 

"We had our songs — ''Why, Soldiers, Why" — and 
the "British Grenadiers" — in which last we were all 
obliged to bear chorus. Both the daughters sang. 
Their proficiency was a nightly theme — the masters 
he had given them — the "no-expense" which he 
spared to accomplish them in a science "so necessary 
to young women." But then — they could not sing 
"without the instrument." 

Sacred, and, by me, never-to-be-violated, Secrets of 
Poverty! Should I disclose your honest aims at 



374 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

grandeur, your makeshift efforts of magnificence? 
Sleep, sleep, with all thy broken keys, if one of the 
bunch be extant; thrummed by a thousand ancestral 
thumbs ; dear, cracked, spinnet of dearer Louisa ! 
Without mention of mine, be dumb, thou thin accom- 
panier of her thinner warble ! A veil be spread over 
the dear delighted face of the well-deluded father, 
who now haply listening to cherubic notes, scarce 
feels sincerer pleasure than when she awakened thy 
time-shaken chords responsive to the twitterings of 
that slender image of a voice. 

We were not without our literary talk either. It 
did not extend far, but as far as it went, it was good. 
It was bottomed well ; had good grounds to go upon. 
In the cottage was a room, which tradition authenti- 
cated to have been the same in which Glover,^ in his 
occasional retirements, had penned the greater part 
of his Leonidas. This circumstance was nightly 
quoted, though none of the present inmates, that I 
could discover, appeared ever to have met with the 
poem in question. But that was no matter. Glover 
had written there, and the anecdote was pressed into 
the account of the family importance. It diffused 
a learned air through the apartment, the little side 
casement of which (the poet's study window), open- 
ing upon a superb view as far as the pretty spire of 
Harrow, over domains and patrimonial acres, not a 
rood nor square yard whereof our host could call his 
own, yet gave occasion to an immoderate expan- 
sion of — vanity shall I call it? — in his bosom, as he 



CAPTAIN JACKSON 375 

showed them in a glowing summer evening. It was 
all his, he took it all in, and communicated rich por- 
tions of it to his guests. It was a part of his largess, 
his hospitality ; it was going over his grounds ; he was 
lord for the time of showing them, and yt)u the im- 
plicit lookers-up to his magnificence. 

He was a juggler, who threw mists before your 
eyes — you had no time to detect his fallacies. He 
would say, ''Hand me the silver sugar tongs;" and 
before you could discover that it was a single spoon, 
and that plated, he would disturb and captivate your 
imagination by a misnomer of "the urn" for a tea 
kettle; or by calling a homely bench a sofa. Rich 
men direct you to their furniture, poor ones divert 
you from it; he neither did one nor the other, 
but by simply assuming that every thing was hand- 
some about him, you were positively at a demur what 
you did, or did not see, at the cottage. With noth- 
ing to live on, he seemed to live on everything. He 
had a stock of wealth in his mind ; not that which is 
properly termed Content, for in truth he was not to 
be contained at all, but overflowed all bounds by the 
force of a magnificent self-delusion. 

Enthusiasm is catching; and even his wife, a sober 
native of North Britain, who generally saw things 
more as they were, was not proof against the con- 
tinual collision of his credulity. Her daughters were 
rational and discreet young women ; in the main, per- 
haps, not insensible to their true circumscances. I 
have seen them assume a thoughtful air at times. 



376 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

But such was the preponderating opulence of his 
fancy, that I am persuaded, not for any half hour to- 
gether did they ever look their own prospects fairly in 
the face. There was no resisting the vortex of his 
temperamen.t. His riotous imagination conjured up 
handsome settlements before their eyes, which kept 
them up in the eye of the world too, and seem at last 
to have realized themselves; for they both have mar- 
ried since, I am told, more than respectably. 

It is long since, and my memory waxes dim on 
some subjects, or I should wish to convey some notion 
of the manner in which the pleasant creature described 
the circumstances of his own wedding-day. I faintly 
remember something of a chaise and four, in which he 
made his entry into Glasgow on that morning to fetch 
the bride home, or carry her thither, I forget which. 
It so completely made out the stanza of the old 
ballad — 

When we came down through Glasgow town, 

We were a comely sight to see; 
My love was clad in black velvet. 

And I myself in cramasie.i 

I suppose it was the only occasion, upon which his 
own actual splendor at all corresponded w^ith the 
world's notions on that subject. In homely cart, 
or traveling caravan, by whatever humble vehicle they 
chanced to be transported in less prosperous days, the 
ride through Glasgow came back upon his fancy, not 
as a humiliating contrast, but as a fair occasion for 



THE SUPERANNUATED MAN 377 

reverting: to that one day's state. It seemed an 
''equipage, etern" from which no power of fate or 
fortune, once mounted, had power thereafter to dis- 
lodge him. 

There is some merit in putting a handsome face upon 
indigent circumstances. To bully and swagger away 
the sense of them before strangers, may not be always 
discommendable. Tibbs, and Bobadil,^ even when de- 
tected, have more of our admiration than contempt. 
But for a man to put the cheat upon himself ; to play 
the Bobadil at home ; and, steeped in poverty up to 
the lips, to fancy himself all the while chin-deep in 
riches, is a strain of constitutional philosophy, and a 
mastery over fortune, whch was reserved for my old 
friend Captain Jackson. 



THE SUPERANNUATED MAN 

* Sera tamen respexit 

Libertas. Virgil.3 

A Clerk I was in London gay. 

O'Keefe. 

If peradventure, Reader, it has been thy lot to waste 
the golden years of thy life — thy shining youth— in 
the irksome confinement of an office; to have thy 
prison days prolonged through middle age down to 
decrepitude and silver hairs, without hope of release 
or respite ; to have lived to forget that there are such 
things as holydays, or to remember them but as the 



378 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

prerogatives of childhood; then, and then only, will 
you be able to appreciate my deliverance. 

It is now six and thirty years since I took my seat 
at the desk in Mincing Lane. Melancholy was the 
transition at fourteen from the abundant playtime, 
and the frequently intervening vacations ' of school 
days, to the eight, nine, and sometimes ten hours' 
a-day attendance at a counting-house. But time par- 
tially reconciles us to anything. I gradually became 
content — doggedly content, as wild animals in cages. 

It is true I had my Sundays to myself; but Sun- 
days, admirable as the institution of them is for pur- 
poses of worship, are for that very reason the very 
worst adapted for days of unbending and recreation. 
In particular, there is a gloom for me attendant upon 
a city Sunday, a weight in the air. I miss the cheerful 
cries of London, the music, and the ballad-singers — 
the buzz and stirring murmur of the streets. Those 
eternal bells depress me. The closed shops repel me. 
Prints, pictures, all the glittering and endless succes- 
sion of knacks and gewgaws, and ostentatiously dis- 
played wares of tradesmen, which make a week-day 
saunter through the less busy parts of the metropolis 
so delightful — are shut out. No book-stalls deli- 
ciously to idle over — No busy faces to recreate the 
idle man who contemplates them ever passing by — the 
very face of business a charm by contrast to his tem- 
porary relaxation from it. Nothing to be seen but 

unhappy countenances or half -happy at best — of 

emancipated 'prentices and little tradesfolks, with here 



THE SUPERANNUATED MAN 379 

and there a servant maid that has got leave to go out, 
who, slaving all the week, with the habit has lost 
almost the capacity of enjoying a free hour; and 
livelily expressing the hollowness of a da'y's pleas- 
uring. The very strollers in the fields on that day 
looked anything but comfortable. 

But besides Sundays I had a day at Easter, and 
a day at Christmas, with a full week in the summer 
to go and air myself in my native fields of Hertford- 
shire. This last was a great indulgence; and the 
prospect of its recurrence, I believe, alone kept me 
up through the year, and made my durance tolerable. 
But when the week came round, did the glittering 
phantom of the distance keep touch with me? or 
rather was it not a series of seven uneasy days, spent 
in restless pursuit of pleasure, and a wearisome anx- 
iety to find out how to make the most of them? 
Where was the quiet, where the promised rest? Be- 
fore I had a taste of it, it was vanished. I was at 
the desk again, counting, upon the fifty-one tedious 
weeks that must intervene before such another snatch 
would come. Still the prospect of its coming threw 
something of an illumination upon the darker side of 
my captivity. Without it, as I have said, I could 
scarcely have sustained my thraldom. 

Independently of the rigors of attendance, I have 
ever been haunted with a sense (perhaps a mere ca- 
price) of incapacity for business. This, during my 
latter years, had increased to such a degree, that it 
was visible in all the lines of my countenance. My 



380 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

health and my good spirits flagged. I had perpetu- 
ally a dread of some crisis, to which I should be 
found unequal. Besides my daylight servitude, I 
served over again all night in my sleep, and would 
awake with terrors of imaginary false entries, errors 
in my accounts, and the like. I was fifty years of 
age, and no prospect of emancipation presented itself. 
I had grown to my desk, as it were ; and the wood had 
entered into my soul. 

My fellows in the office would sometimes rally me 
upon the trouble legible in my countenance ; but I did 
not know that it had raised the suspicions of any of 
my employers, when on the 5th of last month, a day 
ever to be remembered by me, L , the junior part- 
ner in the firm, calling me on one side, directly taxed 
me with my bad looks, and frankly inquired the cause 
of them. So taxed, I honestly made confession of 
my infirmity, and added that I was afraid I should 
eventually be obliged to resign his serviceii He spoke 
some words of course to hearten me, and there the 
matter rested. A whole week I remained laboring 
under the impression that I had acted imprudently 
in my disclosure; that I had foolishly given a handle 
against myself, and had been anticipating my own 
dismissal. A week passed in this manner, the most 
anxious one, I verily believe, in my whole life, when 
on the evening of the 12th of April, just as I was 
about quitting my desk to go home (it might be about 
eight o'clock) I received an awful summons to attend 
the presence of the whole assembled firm in the for- 



THE SUPERANNUATED MAN 381 

midable back parlor. I thought now my time is 
surely come, I have done for myself, I am going to 
be told that they have no longer occasion for me. 

L , I could see, smiled at the terror I was in, which 

was a little relief to me, — when to my utter astonish- 
ment B , the eldest partner, began a formal ha- 
rangue to me on the length of my services, my very 
meritorious conduct during the whole of the time (the 
deuce, thought I, how did he find out that? I pro- 
test I never had the confidence to think as much). 
He went on to descant on the expediency of retiring 
at a certain time of life (how my heart panted!), and 
asking me a few questions as to the amount of my 
own property, of which I have a little, ended with a 
proposal, to which his three partners nodded a grave 
assent, that I should accept from the house, which 
I had served so well, a pension for life to the amount 
of two-thirds of my accustomed~saTary-— a magnificent 
offerT X do not know what I answered between sur- 
prise and gratitude, but it was understood that I ac- 
cepted their proposal, and I was told that I was 
free from that hour to leave their service. I stam- 
mered out a bow, and at just ten minutes after eight 
I went home — for ever. This noble benefit — gratitude 
forbids me to conceal their names — I owe to the 
kindness of the most munificent firm in the world — 
the house of Boldero, Merry weather, Bosanquet, and 
Lacy. 

Esto perpetual l 



382 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

For the first day or two I felt stunned, overwhelmed. 
I could only apprehend my felicity; I was too con- 
fused to taste it sincerely. I wandered about, think- 
ing I was happy, and knowing that I was not. I was 
in the condition of a prisoner in the Old Bastile,^ 
suddenly let loose after a forty years' confinement. 
I could scarce trust myself with myself. It was like 
passing out of Time into Eternity — for it is a sort 
of Eternity for a man to have his Time all to himself. 
It seemed to me that I had more time on my hands 
than I could ever manage. Prom a poor man, poor in 
Time, I was suddenly lifted up into a vast revenue; 
I could see no end of my possessions; I wanted some 
steward, or judicious bailiff, to manage my estates 
in Time for me. And here let me caution persons 
grown old in active business, not lightly, nor without 
weighing their own resources, to forego their custo- 
mary employment all at once, for there may be dan- 
ger in it. I feel it by myself, but I know that my 
resources are sufficient ; and now that those first giddy 
raptures have subsided, I have a quiet home-feeling 
of the blessedness of my condition. I am in no 
hurry. Having all holidays, I am as though I had 
none. If Time hung heavy upon me, I could walk 
it away; but I do not walk all day long, as I used to 
do in those old transient holidays, thirty miles a day, 
to make the most of them. If Time were troublesome, 
I could read it away, but I do not read in that violent 
measure, with which, having no Time my own but 
candlelight Time, I used to weary out my head and 



THE SUPERANNUATED MAN 383 

eye-sight in by-gone winters. I walk, read, or scribble 
(as now) just when the fit seizes me. I no longer 
hunt after pleasure; I let it come to me. I am like 
the man 

that's born, and has his years come to him, 



In some green desert. 

''Years," you will say; ''what is this superannu- 
ated simpleton calculating upon? He has already 
told us he is past fifty. ' ' 

I have indeed lived nominally fifty years, but de- 
duet out of them the hours which I have lived to other 
people, and not to myself, and you will find me still 
a young fellow. For that As the only true Time, which 
a man can properly call his own, that which he has 
all to himself; the rest, though in some sense he may 
be said to live it, is other people's time, not his. The 
remnant of my poor days, long or short, is at least 
multiplied for me threefold. My ten next years, if 
I stretch so far, will be as long as any preceding thirty. 
'Tis a fair rule-of-three sum. 

Among the strange fantasies which beset me at the 
commencement of my freedom, and of which all traces 
are not yet gone, one was, that a vast tract of 
time had intervened since I quitted the Counting 
House. I could not conceive of it as an affair of yes- 
terday. The partners, and the clerks with whom I 
had for so many years, and for so many hours in 
each day of the year being so closely associated — be- 
ing suddenly removed from them — they, seemed as 



384 TEE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

dead to me. There is a fine passage, which may 
serve to illustrate this fancy, in a Tragedy, by Sir 
Robert Howard, speaking of a friend's death: — 

'Twas but just now lie went away; 



' I have not since had time to shed a tear ; 
And yet the distance does the same appear 
As if he had been a thousand years from me. 
Time takes no measure in Eternity .1 

To dissipate this awkward feeling, I have been 
fain to go among them once or twice since ; to visit my 
old desk-fellows — my co-brethren of the quill — that I 
had left below in the state militant. Not all the kind- 
ness with which they received me could quite restore 
to me that pleasant familiarity, which I had here- 
tofore enjoyed among them. We cracked some of our 
old jokes, but methought they went off but faintly. 
My old desk ; the peg where I hung my hat, were ap- 
propriated to another. I knew it must be, but I could 

not take it kindly. D 1 take me if I did not feel 

some remorse — beast, if I had not, — at quitting my 
old compeers, the faithful partners of my toils for 
six and thirty years, that smoothed for me with their 
jokes and conundrums the ruggedness of my profes- 
sional road. Had it been so rugged then after all? 
or was I a coward simply? Well, it is too late to re- 
pent; and I also know, that these suggestions are a 
common fallacy of the mind on such occasions. But 
my heart, smote me. I had violently broken the bands 
betwixt us. It was at least not courteous. I shall 



THE SUPERANNUATED MAN 385 

be some time before I get quite reconciled to the 
separation. Farewell, old cronies, yet not for long, 
for again and again I will come among ye, if I shall 

have your leave. Farewell, Ch , dry, sarcastic, 

and friendly! Do , mild, slow to move, and gen- 
tlemanly! PI , officious to do, and to volunteer, 

good services! — and thou, thou dreary pile, fit man- 
sion for a Gresham or a Whittington of old stately 
House of Merchants; with thy labyrinthine passages, 
and light-excluding, pent-up offices, where candles for 
one half the year supplied the place of the sun 's light ; 
unhealthy contributor to my weal, stern fosterer of 
my living, farewell ! In thee remain, and not in the 
obscure collection of some wandering bookseller, my 
* ' works ! ' ' There let them rest, as I do from my la- 
bors, piled on thy massy shelves, more MSS. in folio 
than ever Aquinas^ left, and full as useful! My 
mantle I bequeath among ye. 

A fortnight has passed since the date of my first 
communication. At that period I was approaching to 
tranquillity, but had not reached it. I boasted of a 
calm indeed, but it was comparative only. Some- 
thing of the first flutter was left ; an unsettling sense 
of novelty; the dazzle to weak eyes of unaccustomed 
light. I missed my old chains, forsooth, as if they 
had been some necessary part of my apparel. I was 
a poor Carthusian,^ from strict cellular discipline sud- 
denly by some revolution returned upon the world. 
I am now as if I had never been other than my own 
master. It is natural to me to go where I please, to 



386 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

do what I please. I find myself at eleven o 'clock in the 
day in Bond Street, and it seems to me that I have 
been sauntering there at that very hour for years past. 
I digress into Soho, to explore a book-stall. Methinks 
I have been thirty years a collector. There is nothing 
strange nor new in it. I find myself before a fine 
picture in the morning. Was it ever otherwise? 
What is become of Fish Street Hill? Where is Fen- 
church Street? Stones of old Mincing Lane which I 
have worn with my daily pilgrimage for six and 
thirty years, to the footsteps of what toil-worn clerk 
are your everlasting flints now vocal? I indent 
the gayer flags of Pall Mall. It is 'Change time, 
and I am strangely among the Elgin marbles.^ It was 
no hyperbole when I ventured to compare the change 
in my condition to a passing into another world. 
Time stands still in a manner to me.: |l have lost all 
distinction of season. -. I do not know the day of the 
week, or of the month. Each day used to be individ- 
ually felt by me in its reference to the foreign post 
days ; in its distance from, or propinquity to the next 
Sunday. I had my Wednesday feelings, my Saturday 
nights' sensations. The genius of each day was upon 
me distinctly during the whole of it, affecting my ap- 
petite, spirits, etc. The phantom of the next day, 
with the dreary five to follow, sat as a load upon 
my poor Sabbath recreations. What charm has 
washed the Ethiop white? What is gone of Black 
Monday? All days are the same. Sunday itself — ■ 
that unfortunate failure of a holiday as it too often 



THE SUPERANNUATED MAN . 387 

proved, what with my sense of its fugitiveness, and 
over-care to get the greatest quantity of pleasure out 
of it — is melted down into a week day. I can spare to 
go to church now, without grudging the huge ca^ntle 
which it used to seem to cut out of the holiday". I 
have Time for everything.! I can visit a sick friend. 
I can interrupt the man of much occupation when he 
is busiest. I can insult over him with an invitation 
to take a day's pleasure with me to Windsor this fine 
May-morning. It is Lucretian ^ pleasure to behold the 
poor drudges, whom I have left behind in the world, 
carking and caring; like horses in a mill, drudging 
on in the same eternal round — and what is it all for? 
A man can never have too much Time to himself, nor 
too little to do. Had I a little son, I would christen 
him NOTHING-TO-DO; he should do nothing. Man, I 
verily believe, is out of his element as long as he is 
operative. I am altogether for the life contempla- 
tive. Will no kindly earthquake come and swallow 
up those accursed cotton mills? Take me that lum- 
ber of a desk there, and bowl it down 

As low as to the fiends. 

I am no longer * * *^ clerk to the firm of, 
etc. I am Retired Leisure. I am to be met with in 
trim gardens. I am already come to be known by 
my vacant face and careless gesture, perambulating 
at no fixed pace nor with any settled purpose. I walk 
about ; not to and from. They tell me, a certain cum 
dignitate ^ air, that has been buried so long with my 



388 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

other good parts, has begun to shoot forth in my 
person. I grow into gentility perceptibly. When 
I take up a newspaper it is to read the state of the 
opera. Opus operatiim est} I have done all that I 
came into this world to da. I have worked taskwork, 
and have the rest of the day to myself. 

THE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING 

It is an ordinary criticism, that my Lord Shaftes- 
bury,^ and Sir William Temple,* are models of the 
genteel style in writing. We should prefer saying — - 
of the lordly, and the gentlemanly. Nothing can be 
more unlike, than the inflated finical rhapsodies of 
Shaftesbury and the plain natural chit-chat of Tem- 
ple. The man of rank is discernible in both writers; 
but in the one it is only insinuated gracefully, in the 
other it stands out offensively. The peer seems to 
have written with his coronet on, and his Earl's man- 
tle before him; the commoner in his elbow chair and 
undress. What can be more pleasant than the way in 
which the retired statesman peeps out in his essays, 
penned by the latter in his delightful retreat at Shene ? 
They scent of Nimeguen, and the Hague. Scarce an 
authority is quoted under an ambassador. Don Fran- 
cisco de Melo, a "Portugal Envoy in England," tells 
him it was frequent in his country for men, spent with 
age and other decays, so as they could not hope for 
above a year oi two of life, to ship themselves away 
in a Brazil fleet, and after their arrival there to go on 



THE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING 389 

a great length, sometimes of twenty or thirty years,, 
or more, by the force of that vigor they recovered with 
that remove. "Whether such an effect (Temple beau- 
tifully adds) might grow from the air, or the fruits 
of that climate, or by approaching nearer the sun, 
which is the fountain of light and heat, when their 
natural heat was so far decayed : or whether the piec- 
ing out of an old man's life were worth the pains, I 
cannot tell : perhaps the play is not worth the candle. ' ' 
— Monsieur Pompone, ''French ambassador in his 
(Sir William's) time at the Hague," certifies him, 
that in his life he had never heard of any man in 
France that arrived at a hundred years of age ; a lim- 
itation of life which the old gentleman imputes to the 
excellence of their climate, giving them such a liveli- 
ness of temper and humor, as disposes them to more 
pleasures of all kinds than in other countries; and 
moralizes upon the matter very sensibly. The "late 
Robert Earl of Leicester" furnishes him with a story 
of a Countess of Desmond, married out of England 
in Edward the Fourth's time, and who lived far in 
King James's reign. The "same noble person" gives 
him an account, how such a year, in the same reign, 
there went about the country a set of morrice-dancers, 
composed of ten men who danced, a Maid Marian/ and 
a tabor and pipe ; and how these twelve, one with an- 
other made up twelve hundred years. ' ' It was not so 
much (says Temple) that so many in one small county 
(Hertfordshire) should live to that age, as that they 
should be in vigor and in humor to travel and to 



390 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

dance." Monsieur Zulichem, one of his ''colleagues 
at the Hague," informs him of a cure for the gout; 
which is confirmed by another "Envoy," Monsieur 
Serinchamps, in that town, who had tried it. — Old 
Prince Maurice of Nassau recommends to him the 
use of hammocks in that complaint; having been al- 
lured to sleep, while suffering under it himself, by 
the "constant motion or swinging of those airy 
beds." Count Egmont, and the Ehinegrave who 
"was killed last summer before Maestricht," im- 
part to him their experiences. 

But the rank of the writer is never more inno- 
cently disclosed, than where he takes for granted the 
compliments paid by foreigners to his fruit trees. 
For the taste and perfection of what we esteem the 
best, he can truly say, that the French, who have 
eaten his peaches and grapes at Shene in no very ill 
year, have generally concluded that the last are as 
good as any they have eaten in France on this side 
Fontainebleau ; and the first as good as any they have 
eat in Gascony. Italians have agreed his white figs 
to be as good as any of that sort in Italy, which is 
the earlier kind of white fig there; for in the latter 
kind and the blue, we cannot come near the warm 
climates, no more than in the Frontignac or Muscat 
grape. His orange-trees too, are as large as any he 
saw when he was young in France, except those in 
Fontainebleau; or what he has seen since in the Low 
Countries, except some very old ones of the Prince 
of Orange's. Of grapes he had the honor of bring- 



TEE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING 391 

ing over four sorts into England, which he enu- 
merates, and supposes that they are all by this time 
pretty common among some gardeners in his neigh- 
borhood, as well as several persons of quality ; for he 
ever thought all things of this kind "the commoner 
they are made the better." The garden pedantry 
with which he asserts that 'tis to little purpose to 
plant any of the best fruits, as peaches or grapes, 
hardly, he doubts, beyond Northamptonshire at the 
furthest northwards; and praises the ''Bishop of 
Munster at Cosevelt," for attempting nothing beyond 
cherries in that cold climate; is equally pleasant and 
in character. ''I may perhaps" (he thus ends his 
sweet Garden Essay with a passage worthy of Cow- 
ley) ''be allowed to know something of this trade, 
since I have so long allowed myself to be good for 
nothing else, which few men will do, or enjoy their 
gardens, without often looking abroad to see how 
other matters play, what motions in the state, and 
what invitations they may hope for into other scenes. 
For my own part, as the country life, and this part 
of it more particularly, were the inclination of my 
youth itself, so they are the pleasure of my age ; and 
I can truly say that, among many great employments 
that have fallen to my share, I have never asked or 
sought for any of them, but have often endeavored 
to escape from them, into the ease and freedom of a 
private scene, where a man may go his own way and 
his own pace, in the common paths and circles of life. 
The measure of choosing well is whether a man likes 



392 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

what he has chosen, which I thank God has befallen 
me; and though among the follies of my life, build- 
ing and planting have not been the least, and have 
cost me more than I have the confidence to own; yet 
they have been fully recompensed by the sweetness 
and satisfaction of this retreat, where, since my reso- 
lution taken of never entering again into any public 
employments, I have passed five years without ever 
once going to town, though I am almost in sight of 
it, and have a house there always ready to receive 
me. Nor has this been any sort of affectation, as some 
have thought it, but a mere want of desire or humor 
to make so small a remove; for when I am in this 
corner, I can truly say with Horace, Me qudties re- 
ficU, etc. 

" Me, when the cold Digentian stream revives, 
What does my friend beHeve I think or ask? 
Let me yet less possess, so I may live, 
Whate'er of life remains, unto myself. 
May I have books enough; and one year's store. 
Not to depend upon each doubtful hour: 
This is enough of mighty Jove to pray, 
Who, as he pleases, gives and takes away." i 

The writings of Temple are, in general, after this 
easy copy. On one occasion, indeed, his wit, which 
was mostly subordinate to nature and tenderness, has 
seduced him into a string of felicitous antitheses: 
which, it is obvious to remark, have been a model to 
Addison and succeeding essayists. ''Who would not 
be covetous, and with reason," he says, "if health 



THE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING 393 

could be purchased with gold? who not ambitious, if 
it were at the conunand of power, or restored by 
honor ? but, alas ! a white staff will not help gouty 
feet to walk better than a common cane ; nor a blue 
riband bind up a wound so well as a fillet. The 
glitter of gold, or of diamonds, will but hurt sore 
eyes instead of curing them ; and an aching head will 
be no more eased by wearing a crown, than a com- 
mon nightcap." In a far better style, and more ac- 
cordant with his own humor of plainness, are the con- 
cluding sentences of his "Discourse upon Poetry." 
Temple took a part in the controversy about the 
ancient and the modern learning ; and, with ' that 
partiality so natural and so graceful in an old man, 
whose state engagements had left him little leisure 
to look into modern productions, while his retire- 
ment gave him occasion to look back upon the classic 
studies of his youth — decided in favor of the latter. 
"Certain it is," he says, "that, whether the fierce- 
ness of the Gothic humors, or noise of their perpetual 
wars, frighted it away, or that the unequal mixture 
of the modern languages would not bear it — the 
great heights and excellency both of poetry and music 
fell with the Roman learning and empire, and have 
never since recovered the admiration and applauses 
that before attended them. Yet, such as they are 
amongst us, they must be confessed to be the softest 
and the sweetest, the most general and most inno- 
cent amusements of common time and life. They 
still find room in the courts of princes, and the cot- 



394 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

tages of shepherds. They ser.ve to revive and ani- 
mate the dead calm of poor and idle lives, and to al- 
lay or divert the violent passions and perturbations 
of the greatest and the busiest men. And both these 
effects are of equal use to human life; for the mind 
of man is like the sea, which is neither agreeable to 
the beholder nor the voyager, in a calm or in a storm, 
but is so to both when a little agitated by gentle 
gales ; and so the mind, when moved by soft and easy 
passions or affections. I know very well that many 
who pretend to be wise by the forms of being grave, 
are apt to despise both poetry and music, as toys 
and trifles too light for the use or entertainment of 
serious men. But whoever find themselves wholly 
insensible to their charms, would, I think, do well 
to keep their own counsel, for fear of reproaching 
their own temper, and bringing the goodness of their 
natures, if not of their understandings, into question. 
While this world lasts, I doubt not but the pleasure 
and request of these two entertainments will do so 
too; and happy those that content themselves with 
these, or any other so easy and so innocent, and do 
not trouble the world or other men, because they can- 
not be quiet themselves, though nobody hurts them." 
''When all is done (he concludes), human life is 
at the greatest and the best but like a forward child, 
that must be played with, and humored a little, to 
keep it quiet till it falls asleep, and then the care is 
over. ' ' 



BABBABA 8 395 



BARBARA S- 



On the noon of the 14th of November, 1743 or 4, I 
forget which it was, just as the clock had struck one, 

Barbara S , with her accustomed punctuality, 

ascended the long rambling staircase, with awkward 
interposed landing-places, which led to the office, or 
rather a sort of box with a desk in it, whereat sat 
the then Treasurer of (what few of our readers may 
remember) the Old Bath Theater. All over the 
island it was the custom, and remains so I believe to 
this day, for the players to receive their weekly sti- 
pend on the Saturday. It was not much that Bar- 
bara had to claim. 

This little maid had just entered her eleventh year ; 
but her important station at the theater, as it seemed 
to her, with the benefits which she felt to accrue from 
her pious application of her small earnings, had given 
an air of womanhood to her steps and to her be- 
havior. You would have taken her to have been at 
least five years older. 

Till latterly she had merely been employed in 
choruses, or where children were wanted to fill up 
the scene. But the manager, observing a diligence 
and adroitness in her above her age, had for some 
few months past intrusted to her the performance 
of whole parts. You may guess the self -consequence 
of the promoted Barbara. She had already drawn 
tears in young Arthur;^ had rallied Richard with in- 



396 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

fantine petulance in the Dnke of York/ and in her. 
turn had rebuked that petulance when she was Prince 
of Wales. She would have done the elder child in Mor- 
ton 's ' pathetic after-piece to the life; but as yet the 
''Children in the Wood" was not. 

Long after this little girl was grown an aged 
woman, I have seen some of these small parts, each 
making two or three pages at most, copied out in the 
rudest hand of the then prompter, who doubtless 
transcribed a little more carefully and fairly for the 
grown-up tragedy ladies of the establishment. But 
such as they were, blotted and scrawled, as for a 
child's use, she kept them all; and in the zenith of 
her after reputation it was a delightful sight to be- 
hold them bound up in costliest Morocco, each single 
— each small part making a hook — with fine clasps, 
gilt-splashed, etc. She had conscientiously kept them 
as they had been delivered to her ; not a blot had been 
effaced or tampered with. They were precious to her 
for their affecting remembrancings. They were her 
principia, her rudiments; the elementary atoms; the 
little steps by which she pressed forward to perfec- 
tion. "What," she would say, ''could Indian rub- 
ber, or a pumice stone, have done for these darlings ? ' ' 

I am in no hurry to begin my story — indeed I have 
little or none to tell — so I will just mention an ob- 
servation of hers connected with that interesting 
time. 

Not long before she died I had been discoursing 
with her on the quantity of real present emotion 



BARBARA S 397 

which a great tragic performer experiences during 
acting. I ventured to think that though in the first 
instance such players must have possessed the feelings 
which they so powerfully called up in others, yet by 
frequent repetition those feelings must become dead- 
ened in great measure, and the performer trust to 
the memory of past emotion, rather than express a 
present one. She indignantly repelled the notion, 
that with a truly great tragedian the operation, by 
which such effects were produced upon an audience, 
could ever degrade itself into what was purely me- 
chanical. With much delicacy, avoiding to instance 
in her 5e?/-experience, she told me, that so long ago 
as when she used to play the part of the Little Son 
to Mrs. Porter's Isabella^ (I think it was), when that 
impressive actress has been bending over her in some 
heart-rending colloquy, she has felt real hot tears 
come trickling from her, which (to use her powerful 
expression) have perfectly scalded her back. 

I am not quite so sure that it was Mrs. Porter ; but 
it was some great actress of that day. The name is 
indifferent; but the fact of the scalding tears I most 
distinctly remember. 

I was always fond of the society of players, and am 
not sure that an impediment in my speech (which 
certainly kept me out of the pulpit) even more than 
certain personal disqualifications, which are often got 
over in that profession, did not prevent me at one 
time of life from adopting it. I have had the honor 
(I must ever call it) once to have been admitted to 



398 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

the tea-table of Miss Kelly. I have played at serious 
whist with Mr. Liston.^ I have chatted with ever 
good-humored Mrs. Charles Kemble.^ I have con- 
versed as friend to friend with her accomplished hus- 
band. I have been indulged with a classical confer- 
ence with Macready f and with a sight of the Player- 
picture gallery, at Mr. Matthews 's, when the kind 
owner, to remunerate me for my love of the old actors 
(whom he loves so much), went over it with me, sup- 
plying to his capital collection, what alone the artist 
could not give them — voice ; and their living motion. 
Old tones, half -faded, of Dodd, and Parsons, and Bad- 
deley, have lived again for me at his bidding. Only 
Edwin he could not restore to me. I have supped 
with ; but I am growing a coxcomb. 

As I was about to say — at the desk of the then 
treasurer of the old Bath theater — not Diamond's — 
presented herself the little Barbara S . 

The parents of Barbara had been in reputable cir- 
cumstances. The father had practised, I believe, as 
an apothecary in the town. But his practice, from 
causes which I feel my own infirmity too sensibly 
that way to arraign — or perhaps from that pure in- 
felicity which accompanies some people in their walk 
through life, and which it is impossible to lay at the 
door of imprudence — was now reduced to nothing. 
They were in fact in the very teeth of starvation, 
when the manager, who knew and respected them in 
better days, took the little Barbara into his com- 
pany. 



BARBARA 8 399 

At the period I commenced with, her slender earn- 
ings were the sole support of the family, including 
two younger sisters. I must throw a veil over some 
mortifying circumstances. Enough to say, that her 
Saturday's pittance was the only chance of a Sun- 
day's (generally their only) meal of meat. 

One thing I will only mention, that in some child's 
part, where in her theatrical character she was to 
sup off a roast fowl (0 joy to Barbara!) some comic 
actor, who was for the night caterer for this dainty — 
in the misguided humor of his part, threw over the 
dish such a quantity of salt (0 grief and pain of 
heart to Barbara!) that when she crammed a portion 
of it into her mouth, she was obliged splutteringly to 
reject it; and what with shame of her ill-acted part, 
and pain of real appetite at missing such a dainty, 
her little heart sobbed almost to breaking, till a flood 
of tears, which the well-fed spectators were totally 
unable to comprehend, mercifully relieved her. 

This was the little starved, meritorious maid, who 
stood before old Havenscroft, the treasurer, for her 
Saturday's payment. 

Ravenscroft was a man, I have heard many old 
theatrical people beside herself say, of all men least 
calculated for a treasurer. He had no head for ac- 
counts, paid away at random, kept scarce any books, 
and summing up at the week's end, if he found him- 
self a pound or so deficient, blest himself that it was 
no worse. 

Now Barbara's weekly stipend was a bare half 



400 TEE ES8AY8 OF ELIA . 

guinea. — By mistake he popped into her hand — a 
whole one. 

Barbara tripped away. 

She was entirely nnconscious at first of the mis- 
take : God knows Ravenscrof t would never have dis- 
covered it. 

But when she got down to the first of those un- 
couth landing-places, she became sensible of an un- 
usual weight of metal pressing her little hand. 

Now mark the dilemma. 

She was by nature a good child. From her parents 
and those about her she had imbibed no contrary in- 
fluence. But then they had taught her nothing. 
Poor men's smoky cabins are not always porticoes of 
moral philosophy. This little maid had no instinct to 
evil, but then she might be said to have no fixed prin- 
ciple. She had heard honesty commended, but never 
dreamed of its application to herself. She thought of 
it as something which concerned grown-up people, 
men and women. She had never known temptation, 
or thought of preparing resistance against it. 

Her first impulse was to go back to the old treas- 
urer, and explain to him his blunder. He was al- 
ready so confused with age, besides a natural want of 
punctuality, that she would have had some difficulty 
in making him understand it. She saw that in^ an 
instant. And then it was such a bit of money! and 
then the image of a larger allowance of butcher's 
meat on their table next day came across her, till her 
little eyes glistened, and her mouth moistened. But 



BARBARA S 401 

then Mr. Ravenscroft had always been so good-na- 
tured, had stood her friend behind the scenes, and 
even recommended her promotion to some of her lit- 
tle parts. But again the old man was reputed to be 
worth a world of money. He was supposed to have 
fifty pounds a year clear of the theater. And then 
came staring upon her the figures of her little stock- 
ingless and shoeless sisters. And when she looked at 
her own neat white cotton stockings, which her sit- 
uation at the theater had made it indispensable for 
her mother to provide for her, with hard straining 
and pinching from the family stock, and thought 
how glad she should be to cover their poor feet with 
the same — and how then they could accompany her 
to rehearsals, which they had hitherto been pre- 
cluded from doing, by reason of their unfashionable 
attire, — in these thoughts she reached the second 
landing-place — the second, I mean from the top — for 
there was still another left to traverse. 

Now virtue support Barbara! 

And that never-failing friend did step in — for at 
that moment a strength not her own, I have heard her 
say, was revealed to her — a reason above reasoning — 
and without her own agency, as it seemed (for she 
never felt her feet to move) she found herself trans- 
ported back to the individual desk she had just 
quitted and her hand in the old hand of Ravenscroft, 
who in silence took back the refunded treasure and 
who had been sitting (good man) insensible to the 
lapse of minutes, which to her were anxious ages; 



402 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

and from that moment a deep peace fell upon her 
heart, and she knew the quality of honesty. 

A year or two's unrepining application to her pro- 
fession brightened up the feet, and the prospects, of 
her little sisters, set the whole family upon their legs 
again, and released her from the difficulty of discuss- 
ing moral dogmas upon a landing-place. 

I have heard her say, that it was a surprise, not 
much short of mortification to her, to see the coolness 
with which the old man pocketed the difference, 
which had caused her such mortal throes. 

This anecdote of herself I had in the year 1800, 
from the mouth of the late Mrs. Crawford,* then 
sixty-seven years of age (she died soon after) ; and 
to her struggles upon this childish occasion I have 
sometimes ventured to think her indebted for that 
power of rending the heart in the representation of 
conflicting emotions, for which in after years she 
was considered as little inferior (if at all so in the 
part of Lady Randolph) even to Mrs. Siddons. 

THE TOMBS IN THE ABBEY 

IN A LETTER TO R S , ESQ.^ 

Though in some points of doctrine, and perhaps of 
discipline, I am diffident of lending a perfect assent 

* The maiden name of this lady was Street, which she 
changed by successive marriages for those of Dancer, Barry, 
and Crawford. She was Mrs. Crawford, a third time a 
widow, when I knew her. [This note is Lamb's mystification; 
the story is true of Miss Kelly, though details are altered.] 



THE TOMBS IN THE ABBEY 403 

to that church which you have so worthily historified, 
yet may the ill time never come to me, when with a 
chilled heart, or a portion of irreverent sentiment, I 
shall enter her beautiful and time-hallowed Edifices. 
Judge then of my mortification when, after attending 
the choral anthems of last Wednesday at Westmin- 
ster, and being desirious of renewing my acquaint- 
ance, after lapsed years, with the tombs and antiqui- 
ties there, I found myself excluded; turned out like 
a dog, or some profane person, into the common 
street with feelings not very congenial to the place, 
or to the solemn service which I had been listening 
to. It was a jar after that music. 

You had your education at Westminster; and 
doubtless among those dim aisles and cloisters, you 
must have gathered much of that devotional feeling 
in those young years, on which your purest mind 
feeds still — and may it feed ! The antiquarian spirit, 
strong in you and gracefully blending over with the 
religious, may have been sown in you among those 
wrecks of splendid mortality. You owe it to the 
place of your education; you owe it to your learned 
fondness for the architecture of your ancestors; you 
owe it to the venerableness of your ecclesiastical es- 
tablishment, which is daily lessened and called in 
question through these practices — to speak aloud your 
sense of them; never to desist raising your voice 
against them, till they be totally done away with and 
abolished; till the doors of Westminster Abbey be 
no longer closed against the decent, though low-in- 



404 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

purse, enthusiast, or blameless devotee, who must 
commit an injury against his family economy, if he 
would be indulged with a bare admission within its 
walls. You owe it to the decencies which you wish 
to see maintained in its impressive services, that our 
Cathedral be no longer an object of inspection to 
the poor at those times only, in which they must rob 
from their attendance on the worship every minute 
which they can bestow upon the fabric. In vain the 
public prints have taken up this subject, in vain such 
poor nameless writers as myself express their indig- 
nation. A word from you, Sir — a hint in your 
Journal — ^would be sufficient to fling open the doors 
of the beautiful Temple again, as we can remember 
them when we were boys. At that time of life, what 
would the imaginative faculty (such as it is) in 
both of us, have suffered, if the entrance to so much 
reflection had been obstructed by the demand of so 
much silver ! — If we had scraped it up to gain an 
occasional admission (as we certainly should have 
done) would the sight of those old tombs have been 
as impressive to us (while we had been weighing 
anxiously prudence against sentiment) as when the 
gates stood open, as those of the adjacent Park; 
when we could walk in at any time, as the mood 
brought us, for a shorter or longer time, as that 
lasted? Is the being shown over a place the same as 
silently for ourselves detecting the genius of it? In 
no part of our beloved Abbey now can a person find 
entrance (out of service time) under the sum of two 



THE TOMBS IN THE ABBEY 405 

shillings. The rich and the great will smile at the 
anticlimax, presumed to lie in these two short words. 
But you can tell them, Sir, how much quiet worth, 
how much capacity for enlarged feeling, how much 
taste and genius, may coexist, especially in youth, 
with a purse incompetent to this demand. — A re- 
spected friend of ours, during his late visit to the 
metropolis, presented himself for admission to St. 
Paul's. At the same time a decently clothed man, 
with as decent a wife and child, were bargaining for 
the same indulgence. The price was only two-pence 
each person. The poor but decent man hesitated, 
desirous to go in; but there were three of them, and 
he turned away reluctantly. Perhaps he wished to 
have seen the tomb of Nelson.^ Perhaps the In- 
terior of the Cathedral was his object. But in the 
state of his finances, even sixpence might reasonably 
seem too much. Tell the Aristocracy of the country 
(no man can do it more impressively) ; instruct 
them of what value these insignificant pieces of 
money, these minims to their sight, may be to their 
humbler brethren. Shame these Sellers out of the 
Temple.^ Stifle not the suggestions of your better 
nature with the pretext, that an indiscriminate ad- 
mission would expose the Tombs to violation. Re- 
member your boy-days. Did you ever see, or hear, 
of a mob in the Abbey, while it was free to all? Do 
the rabble come there, or trouble their heads about 
such speculations? It is all that you can do to drive 
them into your churches; they do not voluntarily 



406 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

offer themselves. They have, alas ! no passion for 
antiquities; for tomb of king or prelate, sage or 
poet. If they had, they would be no longer the 
rabble. 

For forty years that I have known the Fabric, the 
only well-attested charge of violation adduced, has 
been — a ridiculous disememberment committed upon 
the efB.gy of that amiable spy. Major Andre.^ And 
is it for this — ^the wanton mischief of some school- 
boy, fired perhaps with raw notions of Transatlantic 
Freedom — or the remote possibility of such a mis- 
chief occurring again, so easily to be prevented by 
stationing a constable within the walls, if the vergers 
are incompetent to the duty — is it upon such 
wretched pretenses, that the people of England are 
made to pay a new Peter's Pence, so long abrogated; 
or must content themselves with contemplating the 
ragged Exterior of their Cathedral? The mischief 
was done about the time that you were a scholar 
there. Do you know anything about the unfortu- 
nate relic? — 

AMICUS REDIYIYUS 

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 
Clos'd o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 3 

I DO not know when I have experienced a stranger 
sensation, than on seeing my old friend Gr. D.,* who 
had been paying me a morning visit a few Sundays 
back, at my cottage at Islington, upon taking leave, 



AMICUS BEDIVIVUS 407 

instead of turning down the right hand path by which 
he had entered — with staff in hand, and at noon day, 
deliberately march right forwards into the midst 
of the stream that runs by us, and totally disappear. 

A spectacle like this at. dusk would have been ap- 
palling enough; but, in the broad open daylight, to 
witness such an unreserved motion towards self-de- 
struction in a valued friend, took from me all power 
of speculation. 

How I found my feet, I know not. Consciousness 
was quite gone. Some spirit, not my own, whirled 
me to the spot. I remember nothing but the silvery 
apparition of a good white head emerging; nigh 
which a staff (the hand unseen that wielded it) 
pointed upwards, ,as feeling for the skies. In a 
moment (if time was in that time) he was on my 
shoulders, and I — freighted with a load more pre- 
cious than his who bore Anchises.^ 

And here I cannot but do justice to the officious 
zeal of sundry passers by, albeit arriving a little too 
late to participate in the honors of the rescue, in 
philanthropic shoals came thronging to communicate 
their advice as to the recovery; prescribing variously 
the application, or non-application of salt, etc., to the 
person of the patient. Life meantime was ebbing 
fast away, amidst the stifle of conflicting judgments, 
when one, more sagacious than the rest, by a bright 
thought, proposed sending for the Doctor. Trite as 
the counsel was, and impossible, as one should think, 
to be missed on, — shall I, confess ? in this emergency. 



408 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

it was to me as if an Angel had spoken. Great pre- 
vious exertions — and mine had not been inconsidera- 
ble — are commonly followed by a debility of pur- 
pose. This was a moment of irresolution. 

MoNOCULUs^ — for so, in default of catching his 
true name, I choose to designate the medical gentle- 
man who now appeared — is a grave, middle-aged 
person, who, without having studied at the college, 
or truckled to the pedantry of a diploma, hath em- 
ployed a great portion of his valuable time in experi- 
mental processes upon the bodies of unfortunate fel- 
low-creatures, in whom the vital spark, to mere vul- 
gar thinking, would seem extinct, and lost for ever. 
He omitteth no occasion of obtruding his services, 
from a case of common surfeit-suffocation to the ig- 
nobler obstructions, sometimes induced by a too wil- 
ful application of the plant Canmabis ^ oiitwardly. 
But though he declineth not altogether these drier 
extinctions, his occupation tendeth for the most part 
to water-practice ; for the convenience of which, he 
hath judiciously fixed his quarters near the grand re- 
pository of the stream mentioned, where, day and 
night, from his little watch tower, at the Middle- 
ton's Head, he listeneth to detect the wrecks of 
drowned mortality — partly, as he saith, to be upon 
the spot — and partly, because the liquids which* he 
useth to prescribe to himself and his patients, on 
these distressing occasions, are ordinarily more con- 
veniently to be found at these common hostelries, 
than in the shops and phials of the apothecaries. His 



AMICU8 BEDIVIVU8 409 

ear hath arrived to such finesse by practice, that it 
is reported he can distinguish a plunge at a half fur- 
long distance; and can tell, if it be casual or delib- 
erate. He weareth a medal, suspended over a suit, 
originally of a sad brown, but which, by time, and fre- 
quency of nightly divings, has been dinged into a 
true professional sable. He passeth by the name of 
Doctor, and is remarkable for wanting his left eye. 
His remedy — after a sufficient application of warm 
blankets, friction, etc., is a simple tumbler, or more, 
of the purest Cognac, with water, made as hot as the 
convalescent can bear it. Where he findeth, as in the 
case of my friend, a squeamish subject, he conde- 
scendeth to be the taster; and showeth, by his own 
example, the innocuous nature of the prescription. 
Nothing can be more kind or encouraging than this 
procedure. It addeth confidence to the patient, to 
see his medical adviser go hand in hand with himself 
in the remedy. When the doctor swalloweth his own 
draught, what peevish invalid can refuse to pledge 
him in the potion? In fine, Monoculus is a hu- 
mane, sensible man, who, for a slender pittance, 
scarce enough to sustain life, is content to wear it 
out in the* endeavor to save the lives of others — his 
pretensions so moderate, that with difficulty I could 
press a crown upon him, for the price of restoring 
the existence of such an invaluable creature to so- 
ciety as G. D. 

It was pleasant to observe the effect of the sub- 
siding alarm upon the nerves of the dear absentee. 



410 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

It seemed to have given a shake to memory, calling 
up notice after notice, of all the providential de- 
liverances he had experienced in the course of his 
long and innocent life. Sitting up in my couch — my 
couch which, naked and void of furniture hitherto, 
for the salutary repose which it administered, shall be 
honored with costly valance, at some price, and hence- 
forth be a state-bed at Colebrook, — ^he discoursed of 
marvelous escapes — by carelessness of nurses — by 
pails of gelid, and kettles of the boiling element, in 
infancy — by orchard pranks, and snapping twigs, in 
schoolboy frolics — by descent of tiles at Trumping- 
ton, and of heavier tomes at Pembroke — by studious 
watchings, inducing frightful vigilance — ^by want, 
and the fear of want, and all the sore throbbings of 
the learned head. — Anon, he would burst into little 
fragments of chanting — of songs long ago — ends of 
deliverance hymns, not remembered before since 
childhood, but coming up now, when his heart was 
made tender as a child's — for the tremor cordis;^ in 
the retrospect of a recent deliverance, as in a case of 
impending danger, acting upon an innocent heart, 
will produce a self-tenderness, which we should do ill 
to christen cowardice; and Shakspeare, in the latter 
crisis, has made his good Sir Hugh - to remember the 
sitting by Babylon, and to mutter of shallow rivers. 

Waters of Sir Hugh Middleton — what a spark you 
were like to have extinguished for ever ! Your sa- 
lubrious streams to this City, for now near two cen- 
turies, would hardly have atoned for what you were 



AMICUS BEDIVIVUS 411 

in a moment washing away. Mockery of a river — • 
liquid artifice — wretched conduit ! henceforth rank 
with canals, and sluggish aqueducts. Was it for 
this, that, smit in boyhood with the explorations of 
that Abyssinian traveler,^ I paced the vales of Am- 
well to explore your tributary springs, to trace your 
salutary waters sparkling through green Hertford- 
shire, and cultured Enfield parks? — Ye have no 
swans — no Naiads ^ — no river God — or did the 
benevolent hoary aspect of my friend tempt ye to 
suck him in, that ye also might have the tutelary 
genius of your waters. 

Had he been drowned in Cam ^ there would have 
been some consonancy in it; but what willows had ye 
to wave and rustle over his moist sepulture? — or, 
having no name, besides that unmeaning assumption 
of eternal novity, did ye think to get one by the noble 
prize, and henceforth to be termed the Stream 
Dyerian ? 

And could such spacious virtue find a grave 
Beneath the imposthumed bubble of a wave? 

I protest, George, you shall not venture out again — 
no, not by daylight — ^without a sufficient pair of spec- 
tacles — in your musing moods especially. Your ab- 
sence of mind we have borne, till your presence of 
body came to be called in question by it. You shall 
not go wandering into Euripus with Aristotle,* if we 
can help it. Pie, man, to turn dipper at your years, 
after your many tracts in favor of sprinkling only! 



412 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

I have nothing but water in my head o 'nights 
since this frightful accident. Sometimes I am with 
Clarence in his dream.^ At others, I behold Chris- 
tian beginning to sink, and crying out to his good 
brother Hopeful^ (that is, to me), ''I sink in deep 
water; the billows go over my head, all the waves go 
over me. Selah." Then I have before me Pa- 
linurus,^ just letting go the steerage. I cry out too 
late to save. Next follow — a mournful procession — 
suicidal faces, saved against their wills from drown- 
ing; dolefully trailing a length of reluctant grate- 
fulness, with ropy weeds pendent from locks of 
watchet hue — constrained Lazari — Pluto's half-sub- 
jects — stolen fees from the grave — bilking Charon * of 
his fare. At their head Arion ^ — or is it C D. ? — in 
his singing garments marcheth singly, with harp in 
hand, and votive garland, which Machaon (or Dr. 
Hawes)*^ snatcheth straight, intending to suspend it 
to the stern God of Sea. Then follow dismal streams 
of Lethe/ in which the half-drenched on earth are 
constrained to drown downright, by wharfs where 
Ophelia twice acts her muddy death.^ 

And, doubtless, there is some notice in that invisi- 
ble world, when one of us approacheth (as my friend 
did so lately) to their inexorable precincts. When 
a soul knocks once, twice, at death's door, the sensa- 
tion aroused within the palace must be considerable; 
and the grim Feature, by modern science so often 
dispossessed of his prey, must have learnt by this 
time to pity Tantalus. 



SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 413 

A pulse assuredly was felt along the line of the 
Elysian shades, when the near arrival of G. D. was 
announced by no equivocal indications. From their 
seats of Asphodel ^ arose the gentler and the graver 
ghosts — poet, or historian, — or Grecian or of Roman 
lore — to crown with unfading chaplets the half-fin- 
ished love labors of their unwearied scholiast. Him 
Markland expected — him Tyrwhitt hoped to en- 
counter — him the sweet lyrist of Peter House, whom 
he had barely seen upon earth,* with newest airs pre- 
pared to greet ; and, patron of the gentle 

Christ's boy, — who should have been his patron 
through life — the mild Askew, with longing aspira- 
tions leaned foremost from his venerable ^sculapian 
chair,^ to welcome into that happy company the ma- 
tured virtues of the man, whose tender scions in the 
boy he himself upon earth had so prophetically fed 
and watered. 



SOME SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SYDNEY 

Sydney's Sonnets — I speak of the best of them — are 
among the very best of their sort. They fall below 
the plain moral dignity, the sanctity, and high yet 
modest spirit of self -approval, of Milton, in his com- 
positions of a similar structure. They are in a truth 
what Milton, censuring the Arcadia, says of that 
work (to which they are a sort of after-tune or ap- 

* Graium tantum vidit. 



414 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

plication), ''vain and amatorious" enough, yet the 
things in their kind (as he confesses to be true of the 
romance) may be "full of worth and wit." They 
savor of the Courtier, it must be allowed, and not of 
the Commonwealthsman. But Milton was a Courtier 
when he wrote the Masque at Ludlow Castle,^ and still 
more a Courtier when he composed the Arcades, 
When the national struggle was to begin, he becom- 
ingly cast these vanities behind him ; and if the order 
of time had thrown Sir Philip upon the crisis which 
preceded the Revolution, there is no reason why he 
should not have acted the same part in that emer- 
gency, which has glorified the name of a later Syd- 
ney.^ He did not want for plainness or boldness of 
spirit. His letter on the French match may testify, 
he could speak his mind freely to Princes. The times 
did not call him to the scaffold. 

The Sonnets which we oftenest call to mind of Mil- 
ton were the compositions of his maturest years. 
Those of Sydney, which I am about to produce, were 
written in the very hey-dey of his blood. They are 
stuck full of amorous fancies — far-fetched conceits, 
befitting his occupation : for True Love thinks no 
labor to send out Thoughts upon the vast, and more 
than Indian voyages, to bring home rich pearls, out- 
landish wealth, gums, jewels, spicery, to sacrifice in 
self-depreciating similitudes, as shadows of true amia- 
bilities in the Beloved. We must be Lovers — or at 
least the cooling touch of time, the circiim prcecordia 
frigus,^ must not have so damped our faculties, as 



SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 415 

to take away our recollection that we were once so — 
before we can duly appreciate the glorious vanities, 
and graceful hyperboles, of the passion. The images 
which lie before our feet (though by some accounted 
the only natural) are least natural for the high Syd- 
nean love to express its fancies by. They may serve 
for the loves of Tibullus/ or the dear Author of the 
Schoolmistress f for passions that creep and whine in 
Elegies and Pastoral Ballads. I am sure Milton 
never loved at this rate. I am afraid some of his 
addresses {ad Leonoram ^ I mean) have rather erred 
on the farther side ; and that the poet came not much 
short of a religious indecorum, when he could thus 
apostrophize a singing-girl; — 

Angelus unicuique suus (sic credite gentes) 

Obtigit setheriis ales ab ordinibus. 
Quid mirum, Leonora, tibi si gloria major. 

Nam tua praesentem vox sonat ipsa Deum? 
Aut Deus, aiit vaeui certe mens tertia coeli. 

Per tua secrets guttura serpit agens; 
Serpit agens, facilisque docet mortalia corda 

Sensim immortali assuescere posse sono. 
Quod si cuncta quidem Deus est, per cunctaque fusus, 
In te una loquitur, cetera mutus habet. 

This is loving in a strange fashion : and it requires 
some candor of construction (besides the slight dark- 
ening of a dead language) to cast a veil over the 
ugly appearance of something very like blasphemy 
in the last two verses. I think the Lover would 
have been staggered, if he had gone about to express 



416 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

the same thought in English. I am sure, Sydney has 
no flights like this. His extravaganzas do not strike 
at the sky, though he takes leave to adopt the pale 
Dian ^ into a fellowship with his mortal passions. 

I. 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ; , 

How silently; and with how wan a face! 

What! may it be, that even in heavenly place 

That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries? 

Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes 

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; 

I read it in thy looks ; thy languisht grace 

To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 

Then, even of fellowship, Moon, tell me, 

Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit! 

Are beauties there as proud as here they be? 

Do they above love to be loved, and yet 

Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess? 

Do they call virtue there — ungratefulness f 

The last line of this poem is a little obscured by 
transposition. He means, Do they call ungrateful- 
ness there a virtue? 

II. 

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace 
The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release. 
The indifferent judge between the high and low; 
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease * 
Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw; 
O make in me those civil wars to cease: 

* Press. 



SONNETS OF SIB PHILIP SIDNEY 417 

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
Take thou of me, sweet pillows, sweetest bed; 
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light; 
A rosy garland, and a weary head. 
And if these things, as being thine by right, 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, 
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image i see. 

III. 

The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness 
Bewray itself in my long-settled eyes. 
Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise, 
With idle pains, and missing aims, do guess. 
Some, that know how my spring I did address. 
Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge piles; 
Others, because the Prince my service tries. 
Think, that I think state errors to redress; 
But harder judges judge, ambition's rage. 
Scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place. 
Holds my young brain captiv'd in golden cage. 
fools, or over-wise! alas, the race 
Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start, 
But only Stella's eyes, and Stella's heart. 

IV. 

Because I oft in dark abstracted guise 

Seem most alone in greatest company. 

With dearth of words, or answers quite awry, 

To them that would make speech of speech arise; 

They deem, and of their doom the rumor flies. 

That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie. 

So in my swelling breast, that only I 

Fawn on myself, and others do despise ; 

Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess. 

Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass; 



418 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

But one worse fault — Amhition — I confess, 
That makes me oft my best friends overpass, 
Unseen, unheard — while Thought to highest place 
Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace. 

V. 

Having this day, my horse, my hand, my lance. 

Guided so well that I obtained the prize. 

Both by the judgment of the English eyes. 

And of some sent from that sweet enemy, — France; 

Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance; 

Townsfolk my strengiih; a daintier judge applies 

His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise; 

Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; 

Others, because of both sides I do take 

My blood from them, who did excel in this, 

Think Nature me a man of arms did make. 

How far they shot awry; the true cause is, 

Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face 

Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. 

VI. 

In martial sports I had my cunning tried. 

And yet to break more staves did me address. 

While with the people's shouts (I must confess) 

Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins with pride 

When Cupid having me (his slave) descried 

In Mars's i livery, prancing in the press, 

" What now. Sir Fool ! " said he : "I would no less : 

Look here, I say." I look'd, and Stella spied, 

Who hard by made a window send forth light. 

My heart then quak'd, then dazzled were mine eyes 

One hand forgot to rule, th' other to fight; 

Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries. 

My foe came on, and beat the air for me — 

Till that her blush made me my shame to see. 



SONNETS OF SIB PHILIP SIDNEY 419 

VII. 

No more, my dear, no more these counsels try; 

give my passions leave to run their race; 
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace; 
Let f^lk 6'ereharged with brain against me cry; 
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye; 
Let me no steps, but of lost labor, trace; 

Let all the earth with scorn recount my case — 
But do not will me from my love to fly. 

1 do not envy Aristotle's wit, 

Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame; 
Nor aught do care, though some above me sit 
Nor hope, nor wish, another course to frame, 
But that which once may win thy cruel heart: 
Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art. 

vin. 

Love still a boy, and oft a wanton, is, 

School'd only by his mother's tender eye; 

What wonder then, if he his lesson miss. 

When for so soft a rod dear play he try? 

And yet my Star, because a sugar'd kiss 

In sport, I suck'd, while she asleep did lie, 

Doth lour, nay chide, nay threat, for only this. 

Sweet, it was saucy Love, not humble I 

But no 'scuse serves ; she makes her wrath appear 

In beauty's throne — see now who dares come near 

Those scarlet judges threat'ning bloody pain? 

heav'nly Fool, thy most kiss-worthy face 
Anger invests with such a lovely grace. 
That anger's self I needs must kiss again. 

IX. 

1 never drank of Aganippe i well. 
Nor ever did in shade of Temple 2 sit, 



420 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell; 

Poor lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit. 

Some do I hear of Poet's fury tell. 

But (God wot) wot not what they mean by it; 

And this I swear by blackest brook of hell, 

I am no pick-purse of another's wit. 

How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease 

My thoughts I speak, and what I speak doth flow 

In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please? 

Guess me the cause — what is it thus ? — f ye, no. 

Or so ? — much less. How then ? sure thus it is, 

My lips are sweet, inspired by Stella's kiss. 

X. 

Of all the kings that ever here did reign, 
Edward, named Fourth, as first in praise I name, 
Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain 
Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame. 
Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame 
His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain; 
And, gain'd by Mars could yet mad Mars so tame. 
That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain, 
Nor that he made the Floure-de-luce i so 'fraid. 
Though strongly hedged of bloody Lions' paws. 
That witty Lewis 2 to him a tribute paid. 
Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause — 
But only, for this worthy knight durst prove 
To lose his crown rather than fail his love. 

XI. 

happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear, 

1 saw thyself, with many a smiling line 
Upon thy cheerful face, Joy's livery wear, 
While those fair planets on thy streams did shine 
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear, 



SONNETS OF SIB PHILIP SIDNEY 421 

While wanton winds, with beauty so divine 
Eavish'd, stay'd not, till in her golden hair, 
They did themselves (0 sweetest prison) twine. 
And- fain those ^ol'si youth there would their stay 
Have made; but, forced by nature still to fly, 
First did with puffing kiss those locks display. 
She, so dishevell'd, blush'd! from window 1 
With sight thereof cried out, O fair disgrace, 
Let honor's self to thee grant highest place! 

XII. 

Highway, since you my chief Parnassus 2 be ; 
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet. 
Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet. 
More soft than to a chamber melody; 
Now blessed You bear onward blessed Me 
To her, where I my heart safe left shall meet, 
My Muse and I must you of duty greet 
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully. 
Be you still fair, honor'd by public heed, 
By no encroachment wrong'd nor time forgot; 
Nor blam'd for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed. 
And that you know, I envy you no lot 
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss. 
Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss. 

Of the foregoing, the first, the second, and the 
last sonnet, are my favorites. But the general beauty 
of them all, is, that they are so perfectly character- 
istical. The spirit of "learning and of chivalry," — ■ 
of which union, Spenser has entitled Sydney to have 
been the "president," — shines through them. I con- 
fess I can see nothing of the "jejune" or "frigid" 
in them: much less of the "stiff" and "cumbrous" — 



422 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

which I have sometimes heard objected to the Arca- 
dia. The verse runs off swiftly and gallantly. It 
might have been tuned to the trumpet; or tempered 
(as himself expresses it) to "trampling horses' feet." 
They abound in felicitous phrases — 

heav'nly Fool, thy most kiss-worthy face — 

8th Sonnet. 

Sweet pillows, sweetest bed ; 

A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light; 
A rosy garland, and a weary head. 

2nd Sonnet. 

That sweet enemy, — France — 

5th Sonnet. 

But they are not rich in words only, in vague and 
unlocalized feelings — the failing too much of some 
poetry of the present day — they are full, material, 
and circumstantiated. Time and place appropriates 
every one of them. It is not a fever of passion wast- 
ing itself upon a thin diet of dainty words, but a 
transcendent passion pervading and illuminating 
action, pursuits, studies, feats of arms, the opinions 
of contemporaries and his judgment of them. An 
historical thread runs through them, which almost 
affixes a date to them; marks the when and where 
they were written. 

I have dwelt the longer upon what I conceive the 
merit of these poems, because I have been hurt by the 
wantonness (I wish I could treat it by a gentler 
name) with which W. H.^ takes every occasion of in- 
sulting the memory of Sir Philip Sydney. But the 
decisions of the Author of Table Talk, etc. (most 



SONNETS OF SIB PHILIP SYDNEY 423 

profound and subtle where they are, as for the most 
part, just) are more safely to be relied upon, on sub- 
jects and authors he has a partiality for, than on such 
as he has conceived an accidental prejudice against. 
Milton wrote Sonnets, and was a king-hater; and it 
was congenial perhaps to sacrifice a courtier to a 
patriot. But I was unwilling to lose a fine idea from 
my mind. The noble images, passions, sentiments, 
and poetical delicacies of character, scattered all 
over the Arcadia (spite of some stiffness and encum- 
berment), justify to me the character which his con- 
temporaries have left us of the writer. I cannot 
think with the Critic, that Sir Philip Sydney was that 
opprobrious thing which a foolish nobleman in his 
insolent hostility chose to term him. I call to mind 
the epitaph made on him, to guide me to juster 
thoughts of him; and I repose upon the beautiful 
lines in the "Friend's Passion for his Astrophel,"^ 
printed with the Elegies of Spenser and others. 

You knew — who knew not Astrophel? 

(That I should live to say I knew, 

And have not in possession still ! ) — 

Things known permit me to renew — 
Of him you know his merit such, 
I cannot say — you hear — too much. 

Within these woods of Arcady 

He chief delight and pleasure took; 

And on the mountain Partheny, 

Upon the crystal liquid brook, 
The muses met him every day, 
That taught him sing, to write, and say. 



424 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

When he descended down the mount, 
His personage seemed most divine: 
A thousand graces one might count 
. Upon his lovely cheerful eyne. 

To hear him speak, and sweetly smile. 

You were in Paradise the while. 

A siceet attractive kind of grace; 

A full assurance given by looks; 

Continual comfort in a face 

The lineaments of Gos%)el docks 

I trow that count'nance cannot lye, 
Whose thoughts are legible in the eye. 

Above all others this is he. 
Which erst approved in his song 
That love and honor might agree. 
And that pure love will do no wrong. 

Sweet saints^ it is no sin or blame 

To love a man of virtuous name. 
Did never love so sweetly breathe 
In any mortal breast before: 
Did never Muse inspire beneath 
A Poet's brain a finer store, 

He wrote of Love with high conceit. 

And beauty rear'd above her height. 

Or let any one read the deeper sorrows (grief run- 
ning into rage) in the Poem, — the last in the collec- 
tion accompanying the above, — which from internal 
testimony I believe to be Lord Brooke's, — beginning 
with "Silence angmenteth grief," — and then seri- 
ously ask himself, whether the subject of such ab- 
sorbing and confounding regrets could have been that 
thing which Lord Oxford termed him. 



NEWSPAPERS YEARS AGO 425 



NEWSPAPERS THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO 

Dan Stuart once told us, that he did not remember 
that he ever deliberately walked into the Exhibition 
at Somerset House in his life. He might occasionally 
have escorted a party of ladies across the way that 
were going in ; but he never went in of his own head. 
Yet the office of the Morning Post newspaper stood 
then just where it does now — we are carrying you 
back, Reader, some thirty years or more — with its 
gilt-globe-topped front facing that emporium of our 
artists' grand Annual Exposure. We sometimes wish 
that we had observed the same abstinence with 
Daniel. 

A word or two of D. S. He ever appeared to us 
one of the finest tempered of Editors. Peary, of 
the Morning Chronicle, was equally pleasant, with a 
dash, no slight one either, of the courtier. S. was 
frank, plain, and English all over. We have worked 
for both these gentlemen. 

It is soothing to contemplate the head of the 
Ganges ; to trace the first little bubblings of a mighty 
river ; 

With holy reverence to approach the rocks. 
Whence glide the streams renowned in ancient song. 

Fired with a perusal of the Abyssinian Pilgrim 's ^ 
exploratory ramblings after the cradle of the infant 
Nilus, we well rememJ3er on one fine summer holyday 



426 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

(a '^ whole clay's leave" we called at Christ's Hos- 
pital) sallying forth at rise of sun, not very well pro- 
visioned either for such an undertaking, to trace the 
current of the New River — Middletonian stream! — 
to its scaturient source, as we had read, in meadows 
by fair Amwell. Gallantly did we commence our 
solitary quest — for it was essential to the dignity of a 
Discovery, that no eye of schoolboy, save our own, 
should beam on the detection. By flowery spots, and 
verdant lanes skirting Hornsey, Hope trained us on in 
many a baffling turn ; endless hopeless meanders, as it 
seemed ; or as if the jealous waters had dodged us, 
reluctant to have the humble spot of their nativity 
revealed; till spent, and nigh famished, before set 
of the same sun, we sat down somewhere by Bowes 
Farm, near Tottenham, with a tithe of our proposed 
labors only yet accomplished; sorely convinced in 
spirit, that that Brucian enterprise was as yet too 
arduous for our young shoulders. 

Not more refreshing to the thirsty curiosity of the 
traveler is the tracing of some mighty waters up to 
their shallow fontlet, than it is to a pleased and can- 
did reader to go back to the inexperienced essays, the 
first callow flights in authorship, of some established 
name in literature ; from the Gnat which preluded 
to the JEneid,^ to the Duck which Samuel Johnson 
trod on.^ 

In those days every Morning Paper, as an essential 
retainer to its establishment, kept an author, who 
was bound to furnish daily a quantum of witty par- 



NEWSPAPERS YEARS AGO 427 

agraphs. Sixpence a joke, and it was thought pretty 
high too— was Dan Stuart's settled remuneration in 
these cases. The chat of the day, scandal, but, above 
all, dress, furnished the material. The length of no 
paragraph was to exceed seven lines. Shorter they 
might be, but they must be poignant. 

A fashion of ftesli, or rather pmA;-colored hose for 
the ladies, luckily coming up at the juncture, when 
we were on our probation for the place of Chief 
Jester to S.'s Paper, established our reputation in 
that line. We were pronounced a "capital hand." 
O the conceits which we varied upon red in all its 
prismatic differences! from the trite and obvious 
flower of Cytherea,^ to the flaming costume of the 
lady that has her sitting upon "many waters." 
Then there was the collateral topic of ankles. What 
an occasion to a truly chaste writer, like ourself, of 
touching that nice brink, and yet never tumbling over 
it, of a seemingly ever approximating something "not 
quite proper;" while, like a skilful posture-master, 
balancing betwixt decorums and their opposites, he 
keeps the line, from which an hair 's-breadth deviation 
is destruction ; hovering in the confines of light and 
darkness, or where "both seem either;" a hazy un- 
certain delicacy; Autolycus-like in the Play,^ still put- 
ting off his expectant auditory with "Whoop, do 
me no harm, good man!" But, above all, that con- 
ceit arrided us most at that time, and still tickles our 
midriff to remember, where allusively to the flight 
of MiY^^i^— ultima Ccdestum terras reliquit^—we 



428 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

pronounced — in reference to the stockings still — that 
Modesty, taking her final leave of mortals, her 
LAST Blush was visible in her ascent to the 
Heavens by the tract of the glowing instep. 
This might be called the crowning conceit; and was 
esteemed tolerable writing in those days. 

But the fashion of jokes, with all other things, 
passes away; as did the transient mode which had so 
favored us. The ankles of our fair friends in a few 
weeks began to reassume their whiteness, and left us 
scarce a leg to stand upon. Other female whims fol- 
lowed, but none, methought, so pregnant, so invitatory 
of shrewd conceits, and more than single meanings. 

Somebody has said, that to swallow six cross-buns 
daily consecutively for a fortnight, would surfeit the 
stoutest digestion. But to have to furnish as many 
jokes daily, and that not for a fortnight, but for a 
long twelvemonth, as we were constrained to do, was a 
little harder exaction. ^'Man goeth forth to his work 
until the evening" — from a reasonable hour in the 
morning, we presume it was meant. Now, as our 
main occupation took us from eight till five every day 
in the city ; and as our evening hours, at that time of 
life, had generally to do with any thing rather than 
business, it follows, that the only time we could spare 
for this manufactory of jokes — our supplementary 
livelihood, that supplied us in every want beyond 
mere bread and cheese — ^was exactly that part of the 
day which (as we have heard of No Man's Land)^ 
may be fitly denominated No Man 's Time ; that is, no 



NEWSPAPERS YEARS AGO 429 

time, in which a man ought to be up, and awake, in. 
To speak more plainly, it is that time, of an hour, or 
an hour and a half's duration, in which a man, whose 
occasions call him up so preposterously, has to wait 
for his breakfast. • 

those headaches at dawn of day, when at five, or 
half -past five in summer, and not much later in the 
dark seasons, we were compelled to rise, having been 
perhaps not above four hours in bed — (for we were no 
go-to-beds with the lamb, though we anticipated the 
lark ofttimes in her rising — we like a parting cup at 
midnight, as all young men did before these effemi- 
nate times, and to have our friends about us — ^we were 
not constellated under Aquarius, that watery sign,^ 
and therefore incapable of Bacchus,^ cold, washy, 
bloodless — we were none of your Basilian water- 
sponges,^ nor had taken our degrees at Mount Ague * 
— ^we were right toping Capulets,^ jolly compan- 
ions, we and they) — ^but to have to get up, as we 
said before, curtailed of half our fair sleep, fasting, 
with only a dim vista of refreshing Bohea in the dis- 
tance — to be necessitated to rouse ourselves at the de- 
testable rap of an old hag of a domestic, who seemed 
to take a diabolical pleasure in her announcement that 
it was "time to rise;" and whose chappy knuckles we 
have often yearned to amputate, and string them 
up at our chamber-door, to be a terror to all such un- 
reasonable rest-breakers in future — 

"Facil" and sweet, as Yirgil sings, had been the 
*^ descending" of the over-night, balmy the first sink- 



430 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

ing of the heavy head upon the pillow; but to get 
up, as he goes on to say, 

— revocare gradus, superasque evadere ad auras — i 

and to get up moreover to make jokes with malice 
prepended — there was the ^' labor," there the ''work." 

No Egyptian taskmaster ever devised a slavery like 
to that, our slavery. No fractious operants ever 
turned out for half the tyranny, which this necessity 
exercised upon us. Half a dozen jests in a day (bat- 
ing Sunday too), why, it seems nothing! We make 
twice that number every day in our lives as a matter 
of course, and claim no Sabbatical exemptions. But 
then they come into our head. But when the head 
has to go out to them — ^when the mountain must go to 
Mahomet ^ — 

Reader, try it for once, only for one short twelve- 
month. 

It was not every week that a fashion of pink 
stockings came up ; but mostly instead of it, some 
rugged, untractable subject; some topic impossible to 
be contorted into the risible ; some feature upon which 
no smile could play; some flint, from which no 
process of ingenuity could procure a distillation. 
There they lay; there your appointed tale of brick- 
making was set before you, which you must finish, 
with or without straw, as it happened. The craving 
Dragon — the Public — like him in Bel's temple^ — 
must be fed ; it expected its daily rations ; and Daniel, 



NEWSPAPERS YEARS AGO 431. 

and ourselves, to do us justice, did the best we could 
on this side bursting him. 

While we were wringing out coy sprightliness for 
the Post, and writhing under the toil of what is called 
^'easy writing," Bob Allen, our quondam school- 
fellow, was tapping his impracticable brains in a like 
service for the "Oracle." Not that Robert troubled 
himself much about wit. If his paragraphs had a 
sprightly air about them, it was sufficient. He car- 
ried this nonchalance so far at last, that a matter 
of intelligence, and that no very important one, was 
not seldom palmed upon his employers for a good 
jest; for example sake — ^'Walking yesterday morning 
casually down Snow Hill who should we meet hut Mr. 
Deputy Humphreys; we rejoice to add that the 
worthy Deputy appeared to enjoy a good state of 
health. We do not ever rememher to have seen him 
look better.'' This gentleman so surprisingly met 
upon Snow Hill, from some peculiarities in gait or 
gesture, was a constant butt for mirth to the small 
paragraph-mongers of the day; and our friend 
thought that he might have his fling at him with the 
rest. We met A. in Holborn shortly after this ex- 
traordinary rencounter, which he told with tears of 
satisfaction in his eyes, and chuckling at the antici- 
pated effects of its announcement next day in the 
paper. We did not quite comprehend where the wit 
of it lay at the time ; nor was it easy to be detected, 
when the think came out, advantaged by type and let- 
terpress. He had better have met any thing that 



432 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

morning than a Common Council Man. His services 
were shortly after dispensed with, on the plea that his 
paragraphs of late had been deficient in point. The 
one in question, it must be owned, had an air, in the 
opening especially, proper to awaken curiosity ; and the 
sentiment, or moral, wears the aspect of humanity 
and good neighborly feeling. But somehow the con- 
clusion was not judged altogether to answer to the 
magnificent promise of the premises. We traced our 
friend's pen afterwards in the "True Briton," the 
* ' Star, ' ' the ' ' Traveler, ' ' — from all which he was suc- 
cessively dismissed, the Proprietors having '' no fur- 
ther occasion for his services." Nothing was easier 
than to detect him. When wit failed, or topics ran 
low, there constantly appeared the following — '^It is 
not generally known thai the three Blue Balls at 
the Pawnbroker's shops are the ancient arms of Lom- 
hardy. The Lombards were the first money -brokers 
in Europe.' ' Bob has done more to set the public 
right on this important point of blazonry, than the 
whole College of Heralds. 

The appointment of a regular wit has long ceased to 
be a part of the economy of a Morning Paper. Ed- 
itors find their own jokes, or do as well without them. 
Parson Este, and Topham, brought up the set custom 
of "witty paragraphs" first in the World. Boaden 
was a reigning paragraphist in his day, and succeeded 
poor Allen in the Oracle. But, as we said, the fashion 
of jokes passes away ; and it would be difficult to dis- 
cover in the Biographer of Mrs. Siddons, any traces 



NEWSPAPERS YEARS AGO 43a 

of that vivacity and fancy which charmed the whole 
town at the commencement of the present century. 
Even the prelusive delicacies of the present writer — 
the curt "Astrsean allusion" — would be thought pe- 
dantic and out of date, in those days. 

From the office of the Morning Post (for we may as 
well exhaust our Newspaper Reminiscences at once) 
by change of property in the paper, we were trans- 
ferred, mortifying exchange ! to the office of the 
Albion Newspaper, late Rackstrow's Museum, in Fleet 
Street. What a transition — from a handsome apart- 
ment, from rose-wood desks, and silver inkstands, to 
an office — no office, but a den rather, but just re- 
deemed from the occupation of dead monsters, of 
which it seemed redolent — from the center of loyalty 
and fashion, to a focus of vulgarity and sedition ! 
Here in murky closet, inadequate from its square con- 
tents to the receipt of the two bodies of Editor, and 
humble paragraph-maker together at one time, sat in 
the discharge of his new Editorial functions (the 
''Bigod" of Elia) the redoubted John Fenwick. 

F., without a guinea in his pocket, and having left 
not many in the pockets of his friends whom he might 
command, had purchased (on tick doubtless) the 
whole and sole Editorship, Proprietorship, with all 
the rights and titles (such as they are worth) of the 
Albion, from one Lovell; of whom we know nothing, 
save that he had stood in the pillory for a libel on the 
Prince of Wales. With this hopeless concern — for it 
had been sinking ever since its commencement, and 



434 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

could now reckon upon not more than a hundred sub- 
scribers — F. resolutely determined upon pulling down 
the Government in the first instance, and making both 
our fortunes by way of corollary. For seven weeks 
and more did this infatuated Democrat gc Qbout bor- 
rowing seven-shilling pieces, and lesser coin, to meet 
the daily demands of the Stamp Office, which al- 
lowed no credit to publications of that side in poli- 
tics. An outcast from politer bread, we attached 
our small talents to the forlorn fortunes of our friend. 
Our occupation now was to write treason. 

Kecollections of feelings — which were all that now 
remained from our first boyish heats kindled by the 
French Revolution, when, if we were misled, we erred 
in the company of some, who are accounted very good 
men now — rather than any tendency at this time to 
Republican doctrines — assisted us in assuming a style 
of writing, while the paper lasted, consonant in no 
very under tone — to the right earnest fanaticism of 
F. Our cue was now to insinuate, rather than rec- 
ommend, possible abdications. Blocks, axes, Whitehill 
tribunals, were covered with flowers of so cunning 
a periphrasis — as Mr. Bayes ^ says, never naming the 
thing directly — that the keen eye of an Attorney 
General was insufficient to detect the lurking snake 
among them. There were times, indeed, when we 
sighed for our more gentleman-like occupation under 
Stuart. But with change of masters it is ever change 
of service. Already one paragraph, and another, as 
we learned afterwards from a gentleman at the 



THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY 435 

Treasury, had begun to be marked at that office, with 
a view of its being submitted at least to the attention 
of the proper Law Officers— when an unlucky, or 
rather lucky epigram from our pen, aimed at Sir 

J s M h,^ who was on the eve of departing 

for India to reap the fruits of his apostasy as F. pro- 
nounced it (it is hardly worth particularizing), hap- 
pening to offend the nice sense of Lord, or as he then 
delighted to be called, Citizen Stanhope, deprived F. 
at once of the last hopes of a guinea from the last 
patron that had stuck by us ; and breaking up our es- 
tablishment, left us to the safe, but somewhat mortify- 
ing, neglect of the Crown Lawyers. It was about 
this time, or a little earlier, that Dan Stuart made 
that curious confession to us, that he had "never 
deliberately walked into an Exhibition at Somerset 
House in his life." 

BARRENNESS OF THE IMAGINATIVE FAC- 
ULTY IN THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN 

ART 

Hogarth excepted, can we produce any one painter 
within the last fifty years, or since the humor of ex- 
hibiting began, that has treated a story imagi- 
natively? By this we mean, upon whom his subject 
has so acted, that it has seemed to direct him— not 
to be arranged by him 1 Any upon whom its leading 
or collateral points have impressed themselves so 
tyrannically, that he dared not treat it otherwise, lest 



436 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

he should falsify a revelation? Any that has im- 
parted to his compositions, not merely so much truth 
as is enough to convey a story with clearness, but 
that individualizing property, which should keep the 
subject so treated distinct in feature from every other 
subject, however similar, and to common apprehen- 
sions almost identical; so as that we might say, this 
and this part could have found an appropriate place 
in no other picture in the world but this? Is there 
any thing in modern art — ^we will not demand that 
it should be equal — but in any way analogous to what 
Titian has effected, in that wonderful bringing to- 
gether of two times in the ' ' Ariadne, ' '^ in the National 
Gallery? Precipitous, with his reeling Satyr ^ rout 
about him, re-peopling and re-illuming suddenly the 
waste places, drunk with a new fury beyond the 
grape, Bacchus, born in fire, fire-like flings himself at 
the Cretan. This is the time present. With this tell- 
ing of the story — an artist, and no ordinary one, might 
remain richly proud. Guido ^ in his harmonious ver- 
sion of it, saw no further. But from the depth of the 
imaginative spirit Titian has recalled past time, and 
laid it contributory with the present to one simulta- 
neous effect. With the desert all ringing with the mad 
cymbals of his followers, made lucid with the pres- 
ence and new offers of a god, — as if unconscious of 
Bacchus, or but idly casting her eyes as upon some 
unconcerning pageant — her soul imdistracted from 
Theseus* — Ariadne is still pacing the solitary shore 
in as much heart-silence, and in almost the same 



THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY 437 

local solitude, with which she awoke at day-break 
to catch the forlorn last glances of the sail that bore 
away the Athenian. 

Here are two points miraculously co-uniting; fierce 
society, with the feeling of solitude still absolute, 
noon-day revelations, with the accidents of the dull 
gray dawn unquenched and lingering; the present 
Bacchus, with the past Ariadne; two stories, with 
double Time ; separate, and harmonizing. Had the 
artist made the woman one shade less indifferent to 
the God; still more, had she expressed a rapture at 
his advent, where would have been the story of the 
mighty desolation of the heart previous? merged in 
the insipid accident of a flattering offer met with a 
welcome acceptance. The broken heart for Theseus 
was not lightly to be pieced up by a God. 

We have before us a fine rough print, from a pic- 
ture by Raphael ^ in the Vatican. It is the Presenta- 
tion of the new-born Eve to Adam by the Almighty. 
A fairer mother of mankind we might imagine, and a 
goodlier sire perhaps of men since born. But these 
are matters subordinate to the conception of the 
situation, displayed in this extraordinary production. 
A tolerably modern artist would have been satisfied 
with tempering certain raptures of connubial antici- 
pation, with a suitable acknowledgment to the Giver 
of the blessing, in the countenance of the first bride- 
groom; something like the divided attention of the 
child (Adam was here a child man) between the given 
toy, and the mother who had just blest it with the 



438 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

bauble. This is the obvious, the first-sight view, the 
superficial. An artist of a higher grade, considering 
the awful presence they were in, would have taken 
care to subtract something from the expression of 
the more human passion, and to heighten the more 
spiritual one. This would be as much as an exhibi- 
tion goer, from the opening of Somerset House to 
last year's show, has been encouraged to look for. 
It is obvious to hint at a lower expression yet, in 
a picture, that for respects of drawing and color- 
ing, might be deemed not wholly inadmissible within 
these art-fostering walls, in which the raptures should 
be as ninety-nine, the gratitude as one, or perhaps 
Zero ! By neither the one passion nor the other has 
Raphael expounded the situation of Adam. Singly 
upon his brow sits the absorbing sense of wonder at 
the created miracle. The moment is seized by the in- 
tuitive artist, perhaps not self-conscious of his art, in 
which neither of the conflicting emotions — a moment 
how abstracted — have had time to spring up, or to 
battle for indecorous mastery. — We have seen a land- 
scape of a justly admired neoteric, in which he aimed 
at delineating a fiction, one of the most severely 
beautiful in antiquity — the gardens of the Hesper- 
ides.^ To do Mr. justice he had painted a lauda- 
ble orchard, with fitting seclusion and a veritable 
dragon (of which a Polypheme,^ by Poussin,^ is some- 
how a facsimile for the situation) looking over into 
the world shut out backwards, so that none but a 
"still-climbing Hercules" could hope to catch a peep 



TEE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY 439 

at the admired Ternary of Recluses. No conven- 
tual porter could keep his eyes better than this custos 
with the "lidless eyes." He not only sees that none 
do intrude into that privacy, but, as clear as day- 
light, that none but Hercules aut Diaholus ^ by any 
manner of means can. So far all is well. We have 
absolute solitude here or nowhere. Ah extra ^ the dam- 
sels are snug enough. But here the artist's courage 
seems to have failed him. He began to pity his 
pretty charge, and, to comfort the irksomeness, has 
peopled their solitude with a bevy of fair attendants, 
maids of honor, or ladies of the bed-chamber, accord- 
ing to the approved etiquette at a court of the nine- 
teenth century; giving to the whole scene the air of 
8, fete champetre,^ if we will but excuse the absence of 
the gentlemen. This is well, and Watteauish.^ But 
what is to become of the solitary mystery — the 

Daughters three, 
That sing around the golden tree? 

This is not the way in which Poussin would have 
treated this subject. 

The paintings, or rather the stupendous architectur- 
al designs, of a modern artist, have been urged as 
objections to the theory of our motto. They are of 
a character, we confess, to stagger it. His towered 
structures are of the highest order of the material 
sublime. Whether they were dreams, or transcripts 
of some elder worlananship — Assyrian ruins old 
— restored by this mighty artist, they satisfy our 



440 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

most stretclied and craving conceptions, of the glories 
of the antique world. It is a pity that they were 
ever peopled. On that side, the imagination of the 
artist halts, and appears defective. Let us examine 
the point of the story in the "Belshazzar's Feast. "^ 
We will introduce it by an apposite anecdote. 

The court historians of the day record, that at the 
first dinner given by the late King (then Prince 
Regent) at the Pavilion, the following characteristic 
frolic was played off. The guests were select and 
admiring; the banquet profuse and admirable; the 
lights lustrous and oriental; the eye was perfectly 
dazzled with the display of plate, among which the 
great gold salt-cellar, brought from the regalia in 
the Tower for this especial purpose, itself a tower! 
stood conspicuous for its magnitude. And now the 
R-ev. * * *, the then admired court Chaplain, 
was proceeding with the grace, when, at a signal given, 
the lights were suddenly overcast, and a huge trans- 
parency was discovered, in which glittered in gold 
letters — 

Brighton — Earthquake — Sv7 allow-up- alive : 

Imagine the confusion of the guests ; the Georges and 
garters, jewels, bracelets, molted upon the occasion! 
The fans dropped, and picked up the next morning 
by the sly court pages! Mrs. Fitz-what 's-her-name 
fainting, and the Countess of * * * holding the smell- 
ing bottle, till the good-humored Prince caused har- 
mony to be restored by calling in fresh candles, and 



THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY 441 

declaring that the whole was nothing but a panto- 
mime hoax, got up by the ingenious Mr. Farley, of 
Covent Garden, from hints which his Royal High- 
ness himself had furnished! Then imagine the in- 
finite applause that followed, the mutual rallyings, 
the declarations that ''they were not much fright- 
ened," of the assembled galaxy. 

The point of time in the picture exactly answers to 
the appearance of the transparency in the anecdote. 
The huddle, the flutter, the bustle, the escape, the 
alarm, and the mock alarm; the prettinesses height- 
ened by consternation; the courtier's fear which was 
flattery, and the lady 's which was affectation ; all that 
we may conceive to have taken place in a mob of 
Brighton courtiers, sympathizing with the well-acted 
surprise of their sovereign; all this, and no more, is 
exhibited by the well-dressed lords and ladies in the 
Hall of Belus. Just this sort of consternation we 
have seen among a flock of disquieted wild geese at 
the report only of a gun having gone off! 

But is this vulgar fright, this mere animal anxiety 
for the preservation of their persons, — such as we 
have witnessed at a theater, when a slight alarm of 
fire has been given — an adequate exponent of a super- 
natural terror? the way in which the finger of God, 
writing judgments, would have been met by the 
withered conscience? There is a human fear, and a 
divine fear. The one is disturbed, restless, and bent 
upon escape. The other is bowed doAvn, effortless, 
passive. When the spirit appeared before Eliphaz ^ 



442 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

in the visions of the night, and the hair of his flesh 
stood np, was it in the thoughts of the Temanite to 
ring the bell of his chamber, or to call up the serv- 
ants? But let us see in the text what there is to 
justify all this huddle of vulgar consternation. 

From the words of Daniel it appears that Bel- 
shazzar had made a great feast to a thousand of his 
lords, and drank wine before the thousand. The 
golden and silver vessels are gorgeously enumerated, 
with the princes, the king's concubines, and his wives. 
Then follows — 

''In the same hour came forth fingers of a man's 
hand, and wrote over against the candlestick upon 
the plaster of the wall of the king's palace; and the 
kmg saw the part of the hand that wrote. Then the 
king's countenance was changed, and his thoughts 
troubled him, so that the joints of his loins were 
loosened, and his knees smote one against another. ' ' ^ 
This is the plain text. By no hint can it be other- 
wise inferred, but that the appearance was solely 
confined to the fancy of Belshazzar, that his single 
brain was troubled. Not a word is spoken of its 
being seen by any else there present, not even by 
the queen herself, who merely undertakes for the 
interpretation of the phenomenon, as related to her, 
doubtless, by her husband. The lords are simply said 
to be astonished; i. e., at the trouble and the change 
of countenance in their sovereign. Even the prophet 
does not appear to have seen the scroll, which the 
king saw. He recalls it only, as Joseph did the 



THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY 443 

Dream to the King of Egypt.^ ''Then was the part 
of the hand sent from him [the Lord] , and this writ- 
ing was written." He speaks of the phantasm as 
past. 

Then what becomes of this needless multiplication 
of the miracle? this message to a royal conscience, 
singly expressed — for it was said, "thy kingdom is di- 
vided/' — simultaneously impressed upon the fancies 
of a thousand courtiers, who were implied in it 
neither directly nor grammatically? 

But admitting the artist 's own version of the story, 
and that the sight was seen also by the thousand 
courtiers — let it have been visible to all Babylon — as 
the knees of Belshazzar were shaken, and his counte- 
nance troubled, even so would the knees of every 
man in Babylon, and their countenances, as of an 
individual man, have been troubled; bowed, bent 
down, so would they have remained, stupor-fixed, 
with no thought of struggling with that inevitable 
judgment. 

Not all that is optically possible to be seen, is 
to be shown in every picture. The eye delightedly 
dwells upon the brilliant individualities in a "Mar- 
riage at Cana," by Veronese,^ or Titian, to the very 
texture and color of the wedding garments, the ring 
glittering upon the bride's fingers, the metal and 
fashion of the wine-pots; for at such seasons there 
is leisure and luxury to be curious. But in a "day 
of judgment," or in a "day of lesser horrors, yet 
divine," as at the impious feast of Belshazzar, the 



444 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

eye should see, as the actual eye of an agent or 
patient in the immediate scene would see, only in 
masses and indistinction. Not only the female attire 
and jewelry exposed to the critical eye of fashion, as 
minutely as the dresses in a lady's magazine, in the 
criticized picture, — but perhaps the curiosities of 
anatomical science, and studied diversities of posture 
in the falling angels and sinners of Michael Angelo, 
— have no business in their great subjects. There 
was no leisure for them. 

By a wise falsification, the great masters of paint- 
ing got at their true conclusions; by not showing 
the actual appearances, that is, all that was to be 
seen at any given moment by an indifferent eye, but 
only what the eye might be supposed to see in the 
doing or suffering of some portentous action. Sup- 
pose the moment of the swallowing up of Pompeii. 
There they were to be seen — houses, columns, archi- 
tectural proportions, differences of public and private 
buildings, men and women at their standing occupa- 
tions, the diversified thousand postures, attitudes, 
dresses, in some confusion truly, but physically they 
were visible. But what eye saw them at that eclips- 
ing moment, which reduces confusion to a kind of 
unity, and when the senses are upturned from their 
proprieties, when sight and hearing are feeling only? 
A thousand years have passed, and we are at leisure 
to contemplate the weaver fixed standing at his 
shuttle, the baker at his oven, and to turn over with 
antiquarian coolness the pots and pans of Pompeii. 



THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY 445 

''Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon, and thou, 
Moon, in the valley of Ajalon."^ "Who, in reading 
this magnificent Hebraism, in . his conception, sees 
aught but the heroic son of Nun, with the out- 
stretched arm, and the greater and lesser light obse- 
quious? Doubtless there were to be seen hill and 
dale, and chariots and horsemen, on open plain, or 
winding by secret defiles, and all the circumstances 
and stratagems of war. But whose eyes would have 
been conscious of this array at the interposition of 
the synchronic miracle? Yet in the picture of this 
subject by the artist of the "Belshazzar's Feast"— 
no ignoble work either— the marshaling and land- 
scape of the war is everything, the miracle sinks into 
an anecdote of the day: and the eye may ''dart 
though rank and file traverse" for some minutes, 
before it shall discover among his armed followers, 
which is Joshua! Not modem art alone, but ancient, 
where only it is to be found if anywhere, can be de- 
tected erring, from defect of this imaginative faculty. 
The world has nothing to show of the preternatural in 
painting, transcending the figure of Lazarus burst- 
ing his grave-clothes, in the great picture at Anger- 
stein 's.^ It seems a thing between two beings. A 
ghastly horror at itself struggles with newly-appre- 
hending gratitude at second life bestowed. It can- 
not forget that it was a ghost. It has hardly felt 
that it is a body. It has to tell of the world of 
spirits.— Was it from a feeling, that the crowd of 
half-impassioned by-standers, and the still more ir- 



446 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

relevant herd of passers-by at a distance, who have 
not heard or but faintly have been told of the pass- 
ing miracle, admirable as they are in design and hue 
— for it is a glorified work— do not respond ade- 
quately to the action — that the single figure of the 
Lazarus has been attributed to Michael Angelo, and 
the mighty Sebastian unfairly robbed of the fame 
of the greater half of the interest? Now that there 
were not indifferent passers-by, within actual scope 
of the eyes of those present at the miracle, to whom 
the sound of it had but faintly, or not at all, reached, 
it would be hardihood to deny; but would they see 
them? or can the mind in the conception of it admit 
of such unconcerning objects? can it think of them 
at all? or what associating league to the imagination 
can there be between the seers, and the seers not, qf 
a presential miracle ? 

"Were an artist to paint upon demand a picture of 
a Dryad,^ we will ask whether, in the present low 
state of expectation, the patron would not, or ought 
not be fully satisfied with a beautiful naked figure 
recumbent under wide-stretched oaks? Disseat those 
woods, and place the same figure among fountains, 
and fall of pellucid water, and you have a Naiad ! ^ 
Not so in a rough print we have seen after Julio 
Romano,^ we think — for it is long since — there, by 
no process, with mere change of scene, could the 
figure have reciprocated characters. Long, grotesque, 
fantastic, yet with a grace of her own, beautiful in 
convolution and distortion, linked to her con- 



TEE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY 447 

natural tree, co-twisting with its limbs her own, till 
both seemed either — these, animated branches; those, 
disanimated members — yet the animal and vegetable 
lives sufficiently kept distinct — his Dryad lay — an 
approximation of two natures, which to conceive, it 
must be seen; analogous to, not the same with, the 
delicacies of Ovidian transformations. 

To the lowest subjects, and, to a superficial com- 
prehension, the most barren, the Great Masters gave 
loftiness and fruitfulness. The large eye of genius 
saw in the meanness of present objects their capa- 
bilities of treatment from their relations to some 
grand Past or Future. How has Raphael — we must 
still linger about the Vatican — treated the humble 
craft of the ship-builder, in Ms *' Building of the 
Ark?" It is in that scriptural series, to which we 
have referred, and which, judging from some fine 
rough old graphic sketches of them which we possess, 
seem to be of a higher and more poetic grade than 
even the Cartoons. The dim of sight are the timid 
and the shrinking. There is a cowardice in modem 
art. As the Frenchmen, of whom Coleridge's friend 
made the prophetic guess at Rome, from the beard 
and horns of the Moses of Michael Angelo collected 
no inferences beyond that of a He Goat and a 
Cornuto; so from this subject, of mere mechanic 
promise, it would instinctively turn away, as from 
one incapable of investiture with any grandeur. 
The dock-yards at Woolwich would object derogatory 
associations. The depot at Chatham would be the 



448 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

mote and the beam in its intellectual eye. But not 
to the nautical preparations in the shipyards of Civita 
Yecchia did Raphael look for instructions, when he 
imagined the Building of the Vessel that was to be 
conservatory of the wrecks of the species of drowned 
mankind. In the intensity of the action, he keeps 
ever out of sight the meanness of the operation. 
There is the Patriarch, in calm forethought, and with 
holy prescience giving directions. And there are his 
agents — the solitary but sufficient Three — ^hewing, 
sawing, every one with the might and earnestness of 
a Demiurgus;^ under some instinctive rather than 
technical guidance ! giant-muscled ; every one a 
Hercules, or liker to those Vulcanian Three,^ that in 
sounding caverns under Mongibello wrought in fire — 
Brontes, and black Steropes, and Pyracmon. So 
v/ork the workmen that should repair a world ! 

Artists again err in the confounding of poetic with 
pictorial subjects. In the latter, the exterior acci- 
dents are nearly' everything, the unseen qualities as 
nothing. Othello's color — the infirmities and corpu- 
lence of a Sir John Falstaff — do they haunt us per- 
petually in the reading? or are they obtruded upon 
our conceptions one time for ninety-nine that we are 
lost in admiration at the respective moral or in- 
tellectual attributes of the character? But in a 
picture Othello is always a Blackamoor ; and the other 
only Plump Jack. Deeply corporealized, and en- 
chained hopelessly in the grovelling fetters of ex- 
ternality, must be the mind, to which, in its better 



TEE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY 449 

moments, the image of the high-souled, high-intelli- 
genced Quixote ^ — the errant Star of Knighthood, 
made more tender by eclipse — has never presented 
itself, divested from the unhallowed accompaniment 
of a Sancho, or a rabblement at the heels of Rosi- 
nante.^ That man has read his book by halves; he 
has laughed, mistaking his author's purport, which 
was — ^tears. The artist that pictures Quixote — (and 
it is in this degrading point that he is every season 
held up at our Exhibitions) in the shallow hope of 
exciting mirth, would have joined the rabble at the 
heels of his starved steed. We wish not to see that 
counterfeited, which we would not have wished to see 
in the reality. Conscious of the heroic inside of the 
noble Quixote, who, on hearing that his withered 
person was passing, would have stepped over his 
threshold to gaze upon his forlorn habiliments, and 
the '' strange bed-fellows which misery brings a man 
acquainted with ? ' ' Shade of Cervantes ! who in thy 
Second Part could put into the mouth of thy Quixote 
those high aspirations of a super-chivalrous gallantry, 
where he replies to one of the shepherdesses, appre- 
hensive that he would spoil their pretty net-works, 
and inviting him to be a guest with them, in ac- 
cents like these : ^ ' Truly, fairest Lady, Actseon ^ was 
not more astonished when he saw Diana bathing her- 
self at the fountain, than I have been in beholding 
your beauty : I commend the manner of your pastime, 
and thank you for your kind offers; and, if I may 
serve you, so I may be sure you will be obeyed, you 



450 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

may command me : for my profession is this, To show 
myself thankful, and a doer of good to all sorts of 
people, especially of the rank that your person shows 
you to be; and if those nets, as they take up but a 
little piece of ground, should take up the whole world, 
I would seek out new worlds to pass through, rather 
than break them : and (he adds) that you may give 
credit to this my exaggeration, behold at least he 
that promiseth you this, is Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
if haply this name hath come to your hearing." 
Illustrious Romancer ! were the ' ' fine frenzies, ' ' 
which possessed the brain of thy own Quixote, a fit 
subject, as in this Second Part, to be exposed to the 
jeers of Duennas and Serving Men? to be monstered, 
and shown up at the heartless banquets of great men ? 
Was that pitiable infirmity, which in thy First Part 
misleads him, always from within^ into half -ludicrous, 
but more than half-compassionable and admirable 
errors, not infliction enough from heaven, that men 
by studied artifices must devise and practice upon 
the humor, to inflame where they should sooth it? 
Why, Goneril would have blushed to practice upon 
the abdicated king at this rate, and the she-wolf 
Regan ^ not have endured to play the pranks upon 
his fled wits, which thou hast made thy Quixote suffer 
in Duchesses' halls, and at the hands of that un- 
worthy nobleman.* 

In the First Adventures, even, it needed all the 

* Yet from this Second Part, our cried-up pictures are 
mostly selected, the waiting-women with beards, etc. 



THE niAGI^ATIVE FACULTY 451 

art of the most consummate artist in the Book way 
that the world hath yet seen, to keep np in the mind 
of the reader the heroic attributes of the character 
without relaxing ; so as absolutely that they shall suf- 
fer no alloy from the debasing fellowship of the 
clown. If it ever obtrudes itself as a disharmony, 
are we inclined to laugh; or not, rather, to indulge 
a contrary emotion ?— Cervantes, stung, perchance, 
by the relish with which his Reading Public had re- 
ceived the fooleries of the man, more to their palates 
than the generosities of the master, in the sequel let 
his pen run riot, lost the harmony and the balance, 
and sacrificed a great idea to the taste of his contem- 
poraries. We know that in the present day the 
Knight has fewer admirers than the Squire. An- 
ticipating, what did actually happen to him— as after- 
wards it did to his scarce inferior follower, the Author 
of ^'Guzman de Alfarache" i— that some less knowing 
hand would prevent him by a spurious Second Part ; 
and judging, that it would be easier for his com- 
petitor to out-bid him in the comicalities, than in the 
romance, of his work, he abandoned his Knight, and 
has fairly set up the Squire for his Hero. For what 
else has he unsealed the eyes of Sancho; and instead 
of that twilight state of semi-insanity— the madness 
at second-hand— the contagion, caught from ^ a 
stronger mind infected— that war between native 
cunning, and hereditary deference, with which he has 
hitherto accompanied his master — ^two for a pair 
almost— does he substitute a downright Knave, with 



452 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

open eyes, for his own ends only following a con- 
fessed Madman ; and offering at one time to lay, if 
not actually laying, hands npon him ! From the 
moment that Sancho loses his reverence, Don Quixote 
is become — a treatable lunatic. Our artists handle 
him accordingly. 

REJOICINGS UPON THE NEW YEAR'S COM- 
ING OF AGE 

The Old Year being dead, and the New Year coming 
of age, which he does, by Calendar Law, as soon as 
the breath is out of the old gentleman's body, nothing 
would serve the young spark but he must give a 
dinner upon the occasion, to which all the Days in the 
year were invited. The Festivals, whom he deputed 
as his stewards, were mightily taken with the notion. 
They had been engaged time out of mind, they said, 
in providing mirth and good cheer for mortals below ; 
and it was time they should have a taste of their 
own bounty. It was stiffly debated among them, 
whether the Fasts should be admitted. Some said 
the appearance of such lean, starved guests, with 
their mortified faces, would pervert the ends of the 
meeting. But the objection was over-ruled by Christ- 
mas Day, who had a design upon Ash Wednesday - (as 
you shall hear), and a mighty desire to see how the 
Old Dominie would behave himself in his cups. Only 
the Vigils were requested to come with their lanterns, 
to light the gentlefolks home at night. 



NEW YEAR'S COMING OF AGE 453 

All the Days came to their day. Covers were pro- 
vided for three hundred and sixty-five guests at the 
principal table; with an occasional knife and fork at 
the side-board for the Twenty-Ninth of February. 

I should have told you, that cards of invitation had 
been issued. The carriers were the Hours; twelve 
little, merry, whirligig footpages, as you should desire 
to see, that went all round, and found out the persons 
invited well enough, with the exception of Easter 
Day, Shrove Tuesday,'^ and a few such Moveables, who 
had lately shifted their quarters. 

Well, they all met at last, foul Days, fine Days, all 
sorts of Days, and a rare din they made of it. 
There was nothing but. Hail! fellow Day, — ^well met 
— brother Day — sister Day, — only Lady Day'^ kept a 
little on the aloof, and seemed somewhat scornful. 
Yet some said, Twelfth Day ^ cut her out and out, for 
she came in a tiffany suit, white and gold, like a 
queen on a frost-cake, all royal, glittering and Epiph- 
anous. The rest came^ some in green, some in white, — 
but old Lent and his family were not yet out of 
mourning. Rainy Days came in dripping; and sun- 
shiny Days helped them to change their stockings. 
Wedding Day was there "in his marriage finery, a 
little the worse for wear. Pay Day came late, as he 
always does ; and the Doomsday sent word — he might 
be expected. 

April Fool (as my young lord's jester) took upon 
himself to marshal the guests, and wild work he made 
it. It would have posed old Erra Pater * to have 



454 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

found out any given Day in the year, to erect a 
scheme upon — good Days, bad Days, were so shuffled 
together, to the confounding of all sober horoscopy. 

He had stuck the Twenty First of June next to the 
Twenty Second of December, and the former looked 
like a Maypole siding a marrow-bone. Ash Wednes- 
day got wedged in (as was concerted) betwixt Christ- 
mas and Lord Mayor's days. Lord! how he laid 
about him ! Nothing but barons of beef and turkeys 
would go down with him — to the great greasing and 
detriment of his new sackcloth bib and tucker. And 
still Christmas Day was at his elbow, plying him 
with the wassail-bowl, till he roared, and hiccupp'd, 
and protested there was no faith in dried ling, but 
commended it to the devil for a sour, windy, acri- 
monius, censorious, hy-po-crit-crit-critical mess, and 
no dish for a gentleman. Then he dipped his fist into 
the middle of the great custard that stood before his 
left-hand neighbor, and daubed his hungry beard, 
all over with it, till you would have taken him for 
the Last Day in December, it so hung in icicles. 

At another part of the table, Shrove Tuesday was 
helping the Second of September to some cock broth, 
— which courtesy the latter returned with the delicate 
thigh of a hen pheasant — so there was no love lost 
for that matter. The Last of Lent was spunging 
upon Shrove-tide's pancakes; which Api^il Fool per- 
ceiving, told him he did well, for pancakes were 
proper to a good fry-day. 

In another part, a hubbub arose about the Thirtieth 



NEW YEAR'S COMING OF AGE 455 

of January, who, it seems being a sour puritanic 
character, that thought nobody's meat good or 
sanctified enough for him, had smuggled into the 
room a calf's head, which he had had cooked at home 
for that purpose, thinking to feast thereon inconti- 
nently ; but as it lay in the dish March Manyweathers, 
who is a very fine lady, and subject to the megrims, 
screamed out there was a "human head in the plat- 
ter, ' ' and raved about Herodias ' ^ daughter to that 
degree, that the obnoxious viand was obliged to be 
removed; nor did she recover her stomach till she 
had gulped down a Restorative, confected of Oak 
Apple, which the merry Twenty Ninth of May always 
carries about with him for that purpose. 

The King 's health * being called for after this, a 
notable dispute arose between the Twelfth of August 
(a zealous old Whig gentlewoman), and the Twenty 
Third of April (a new-fangled lady of the Tory 
stamp), as to which of them should have the honor 
to propose it. August grew hot upon the matter, 
affirming time out of mind the prescriptive right to 
have lain with her, till her rival had basely sup- 
planted her; whom she represented as little better 
than a kept mistress, who went about in fine clothes, 
while she (the legitimate Birthday) had scarcely a 
rag, &c. 

April Fool, being made mediator, confirmed the 
right in the strongest form of words to the appellant, 
but decided for peace' sake that the exercise of it 

*The late King. 



456 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

should remain with the present possessor. At the 
same time, he slyly rounded the first lady in the ear, 
that an action, might lie against the Crown for 
hi-geny. 

It beginning to grow a little duskish, Candlemas ^ 
lustily bawled out for lights, which was opposed by 
all the Days, who protested against burning daylight. 
Then fair water was handed round in silver ewers, 
and the same lady was observed to take an unusual 
time in Washing herself. 

May Day, with that sweetness which is peculiar to 
her, in a neat speech proposing the health of the 
founder, crowned her goblet (and by her example the 
rest of the company) with garlands. This being 
done, the lordly New Year from the upper end of the 
table, in a cordial but somewhat lofty tone, returned 
thanks. He felt proud on an occasion of meeting so 
many of his worthy father's late tenants, promised to 
improve their farms, and at the same time to abate 
(if anything was found unreasonable) in their rents. 

At the mention of this, the four Quarter Days in- 
voluntarily looked at each other, and smiled; April 
Fool whistled an old tune of "New Brooms;" and 
a surly old rebel at the further end of the table (who 
was discovered to be no other than the Fifth of 
Novemher) muttered out, distinctly enough to be 
heard by the whole company words to this effect, 
that 'Svhen the old one is gone, he is a fool that 
looks for a better." Which rudeness of his, the 
guests resenting, unanimously voted his expulsion; 



NEW YEAR'S COMING OF AGE 457 

and the male-content was thrust out neck and heels 
into the cellar, as the properest place for such a 
houtefeu ^ and firebrand as he had shown himself to be. 

Order being restored — the young lord (who, to say 
truth, had been a little ruffled, and put beside his 
oratory) in as few, and yet as obliging words as pos- 
sible, assured them of entire welcome; and, with a 
graceful turn, singling out poor Twenty Ninth of 
February, that had sat all this while mumchance at 
the side-board, begged to couple his health with that 
of the good company before him — which he drank 
accordingly; observing, that he had not seen his 
honest face any time these four years — with a num- 
ber of endearing expressions besides. At the same 
time removing the solitary Day from the forlorn 
seat which had been assigned him, he stationed him 
at his own board, somewhere between the Greek 
Calends and Latter Lammas. 

Ash Wednesday, being now called upon for a song, 
with his eyes fast stuck in his head, and as well 
as the Canary he had swallowed would give him leave, 
struck up a Carol, which Christmas Day had taught 
him for the nonce; and was followed by the latter, 
who gave ''Miserere" in fine style, hitting off the 
mumping notes and lengthened drawl of Old Morti- 
fication with infinite humor. April Fool swore they 
had exchanged conditions: but Good Friday was ob- 
served to look extremely grave ; and Sunday held her 
fan before her face, that she might not be seen to 
smile. 



458 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

SUfove-tide, Lord Mayor's Day and April Fool 
next joined in a glee — 

Which is the properest day to drink? . 

in which all the Days chiming in, made a merry 
burden. 

They next fell to quibbles and conundrums. The 
question being proposed, who had the greatest num- 
ber of followers — the Quarter Days said, there could 
be no question as to that; for they had all the 
creditors in the world dogging their heels. But 
April Fool gave it in favor of the Forty Days before 
Easter; because the debtors in all cases outnumbered 
the creditors, and they kept lent all the year. 

All this while, Valentine's Day kept courting 
pretty May, who sat next him, slipping amorous 
billets-doux under the table till the Dog Days (who 
are naturally of a warm constitution) began to be 
jealous, and to bark and rage exceedingly. April 
Fool, who likes a bit of sport above measure, and 
had some pretensions to the lady besides, as being 
but a cousin once removed, — clapped and halloo 'd 
them on; and as fast as their indignation cooled, 
those mad wags, the Ember Days, were at it with 
their bellows, to blow it into a flame ; and all was in 
a fervent; till old Madam Septuagesima^ (who boasts 
herself the Mother of the Days) wisely diverted the 
conversation with a tedious tale of the loves Avhich 
she could reckon when she was young; and of one 
Master Rogation Day ^ in particular, who was for- 



NEW YEAR'S COMING OF AGE 459 

ever putting the question to her; but she kept him 
at a distance, as the chronicle would tell — by which 
I apprehend she meant the Ahnanack. Then she 
rambled on to the Days that were gone, the good old 
Days, and so to the Days before the Flood — ^which 
plainly showed her old head to be little better than 
crazed and doited. Day being ended, the Days called 
for their cloaks and great coats, and took their leaves. 
Lord Mayor's Day went off in a mist, as usual; 
Shortest Day in a deep black Fog, that wrapped 
the little gentleman all round like a hedgehog. 
Two Vigils — so watchmen are called in heaven — saw 
Christmas Day safe home — ^they had been used to the 
business before. Another Vigil — a stout, sturdy 
patrol, called the Eve of St. Christopher'^ — seeing 
Ash Wednesday in a condition little better than he 
should be — e 'en whipped him over his shoulders, pick- 
a-pack fashion, and Old Mortification went floating 
home singing — 

On the bat's back do I fly 

and a number of old snatches besides, between drunk 
and sober, but very few Aves or Penitentiaries (you 
may believe me) were among them. Longest Day set 
off westward in a beautiful crimson and gold — the 
rest, some in one fashion, some in another; but Valen- 
tine and pretty May took their departure together in 
one of the prettiest silvery twilights a Lover's Day 
could wish to set in. 



460 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 



THE WEDDING 

I DO not know when I have been better pleased 
than at being invited last week to be present at the 
wedding of a friend's daughter. I like to make one 
at these ceremonies, which to us old people give back 
our youth in a manner, and restore our gayest season, 
in the remembrance of our own success, or the re- 
grets, scarcely less tender, of our own youthful dis- 
appointments, in this point of a settlement. On these 
occasions I am sure to be in good-humor for a week 
or two after, and enjoy a reflected honey-moon. 
Being without a family, I am flattered with these tem- 
porary adoptions into a friend's family; I feel a sort 
of cousinhood or uncleship, for the season; I am in- 
ducted into degrees of aiflnity; and, in the partici- 
pated socialities of the little community, I lay down 
for a brief while my solitary bachelorship. I carry 
this humor so far, that I take it unkindly to be left 
out, even when a funeral is going on in the house of 

a dear friend. But to my subject. 

The union itself had been long settled, but 
its celebration had been hitherto deferred, to an al- 
most unreasonable state of suspense in the lovers, by 
some invincible prejudices which the bride's father 
had unhappily contracted upon the subject of the too 
early marriages of females. He has been lecturing 
any time these five years — for to that length the 
courtship has been protracted — upon the propriety of 



THE WEDDING 461 

putting off the solemnity, till the lady should have 
completed her five and twentieth year. We all began 
to be afraid that a suit, which as yet had abated of 
none of its ardors, might at last be lingered on, till 
passion had time to cool, and love go out in the ex- 
periment. But a little wheedling on the part of his 
wife, who was by no means a party to these over- 
strained notions, joined to some serious expostulations 
on that of his friends, who from the growing in- 
firmities of the old gentleman, could not promise our- 
selves many years' enjoyment of his company, and 
were anxious to bring matters to a conclusion during 
his life-time, at length prevailed ; and on Monday last 

the daughter of my old friend, Admiral ,^ having 

attained the womanly age of nineteen, was conducted 

to the church by her pleasant cousin J ^, who told 

some few years older. 

Before the youthful part of my female readers ex- 
press their indignation at the abominable loss of 
time occasioned to the lovers by the preposterous 
notions of my old friend, they will do well to consider 
the reluctance which a fond parent naturally feels 
at parting with his child. To this unwillingness, I 
believe, in most cases may be traced the difference of 
opinion on this point between child and parent, what- 
ever pretenses of interest or prudence may be held 
out to cover it. The hardheartness of fathers is a 
fine theme for romance writers, a sure and moving 
topic ; but is there not something untender, to say 
no more of it, in the hurry which a beloved child is 



462 TEE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

sometimes in to tear herself from the paternal stock, 
and conunit herself to strange graftings? The case 
is heightened where the lady, as in the present in- 
stance, happens to be an only child. I do not un- 
derstand these matters experimentally, but I can 
make a shrewd guess at the wounded pride of a par- 
ent upon these occasions. It is no new observation, 
I believe, that a lover in most cases has no rival so 
much to be feared as the father. Certainly there is 
a jealousy in unparallel subjects, which is little less 
heart-rending than the passion which we more strictly 
christen by that name. Mothers' scruples are more 
easily got over; for this reason, I suppose, that the 
protection transferred to a husband is less a deroga- 
tion and a loss to their authority than to the pa- 
ternal. Mothers, besides, have a trembling foresight, 
which paints the inconveniences (impossible to be 
conceived in the same degree by the other parent) of 
a life of forlorn celibacy, which the refusal of a tol- 
erable match may entail upon their child. Mothers' 
instinct is a sur^r guide here, than the cold reason- 
ings of a father on such a topic. To this instinct 
may be imputed, and by it alone may be excused, the 
-unbeseeming artifices, by which some wives push on 
the matrimonial projects of their daughters, which 
the husband, however, approving, shall entertain 
with comparative indifference. A little shamelessness 
on this head is pardonable. With this explanation, 
forwardness becomes a grace, and maternal impor- 
tunity receives the name of a virtue. — But the par- 



THE WEDDING 463 

son stays, while I preposterously assume his office; I 
am preaching, while the bride is on the threshold. 

Nor let any of my female readers suppose that the 
sage reflections which have just escaped me have the 
obliquest tendency of application to the young lady, 
who, it will be seen, is about to venture upon a change 
in her condition^ at a mature and competent age, and 
not without the fullest approbation of all parties. I 
only deprecate very hasty marriages. 

It had been fixed that the ceremony should be gone 
through at an early hour, to give time for a little 
dejeune afterwards, to which a select party of friends 
had been invited. We were in church a little before 
the clock struck eight. 

Nothing could be more judicious or graceful than 
the dress of the bride-maids — the three charming 
Miss Foresters — on this morning. To give the bride 
an opportunity of shining singly, they had come hab- 
ited all in green. I am ill at describing female ap- 
parel; but while she stood at the altar in vestments 
white and candid as her thoughts, a sacrificial white- 
ness, they assisted in robes, such as might become 
Diana 's nymphs ^ — Foresters indeed — as such who had 
not yet come to the resolution of putting off cold vir- 
ginity. These young maids, not being so blest as to 
have a mother living, I am told, keep single for their 
father's sake, and live all together so happy with 
their remaining parent, that the hearts of their lovers 
are ever broken with the prospect (so inauspicious 
to their hopes) of such uninterrupted and provoking 



464 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

home-comfort. Gallant girls ! each a victim worthy 
of Iphigenia ! ^ 

I do not know what business I have to be present in 
solemn places. I cannot divest me of an nnseasona- 
ble disposition to levity upon the most awful occa- 
sions. I was never cut out for a public functionary. 
Ceremony and I have long shaken hands ; but I could 
not resist the importunities of the young lady's 
father, whose gout unhappily confined him at home, 
to act as parent on this occasion, and give away the 
hride. Something ludicrous occurred to me at this 
most serious of all moments — a sense of my unfitness 
to have the disposal, even in imagination, of the sweet 
young creature beside me. I fear I was betrayed to 
some lightness, for the awful eye of the parson — and 
the rector's eye of Saint Mildred's in the Poultry 
is no trifle of a rebuke — was upon me in an instant, 
souring my incipient jest to the tristful severities of 
a funeral. 

This was the only misbehavior which I can plead 
to upon this solemn occasion, unless what was ob- 
jected to me after the ceremony by one of the hand- 
some Miss T s, be accounted a solecism. She was 

pleased to say that she had never seen a gentleman 
before me give away a bride in black. Now black has 
been my ordinary apparel so long — indeed I take, it 
to be the proper costume of an author — the stage 
sanctions it — that to have appeared in some lighter 
color would have raised more mirth at my expense, 
than the anomaly had created censure. But I could 



THE WEDDING 465 

perceive that the bride's mother, and some elderly 
ladies present (God bless them!) would have been 
well content, if I had come in any other color than 
that. But I got over the omen by a lucky apologue, 
which I remembered out of Pilpay,^ or some Indian 
author, of all the birds being invited to the linnets' 
wedding, at which, when all the rest came in their gay- 
est feathers, the raven alone apologized for his cloak 
because ''he had no other." This tolerably reconciled 
the elders. But with the young people all was merri- 
ment, and shaking of hands, and congratulations and 
kissing away the bride's tears, and kissings from her 
in return, till a young lady, who assumed some experi- 
ence in these matters, having worn the nuptial bands 
some four or five weeks longer than her friend, res- 
cued her, archly observing, with half an eye upon the 
bridegroom, that at this rate she would have "none 
left." 

My friend the admiral was in fine wig and buckle 
on this occasion — a striking contrast to his usual neg- 
lect of personal appearance. He did not once shove 
up his borrowed locks (his custom ever at his morn- 
ing studies) to betray the few gray stragglers of his 
own beneath them. He wore an aspect of thought- 
ful satisfaction. I trembled for the hour, which at 
length approached, when after a protracted break- 
fast of three hours — if stores of cold fowls, tongues, 
hams, botargoes, dried fruits, wines, cordials, etc., 
can deserve so meager an appellation — the coach was 
announced, which was come to carry off the bride 



^66 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

and bridegroom for a season (as custom has sensibly 
ordained) into the country; upon which design, wish- 
ing them a felicitous, journey, let us return to the 
assembled guests. 

As when a well-graced actor leaves the stage. 

The eyes of men 

Are idly bent on him that enters next, 

SO idly did we bend our eyes upon one another, when 
the chief performers in the morning's pageant had 
vanished. None told his tale. None sipped her glass. 
The poor Admiral made an effort — it was not much. 
I had anticipated so far. Even the infinity of full 
satisfaction, that had betrayed itself through the prim 
looks and quiet deportment of his lady, began to 
wane into something of misgiving. No one knew 
whether to take their leaves or stay. We seemed 
assembled upon a silly occasion. In this crisis, be- 
twixt tarrying and departure, I must do justice to 
a foolish talent of mine, which had otherwise like to 
have brought me into disgrace in the fore-part of the 
day; I mean a power, in any emergency, of thinking 
and giving vent to all manner of strange nonsense. 
In this awkward dilemma I found it sovereign. I 
rattled off some of my most excellent absurdities. 
All were willing to be relieved, at any expense of 
reason, from the pressure of the intolerable vacuum 
which had succeeded to the morning bustle. By this 
means I was fortunate in keeping together the better 
part of the company to a late hour: and a rubber of 



THE WEDDING 467 

whist (the Admiral's favorite game) with some rare 
strokes of chance, as well as skill, which came op- 
portunely on his side-^lengthened out till midnight — 
dismissed the old gentleman at last to his bed with 
comparatively easy spirits. 

I have been at my old friend's various times since. 
I do not know a visiting place where every guest is 
so perfectly at his ease; nowhere, where harmony is 
so strangely the result of confusion. Every body is 
at cross purposes, yet the effect is so much better 
than uniformity. Contradictory orders; servants 
pulling one way; master and mistress driving some 
other, yet both diverse; visitors huddled up in corn- 
ers; chairs unsymmetrized ; candles disposed by 
chance ; meals at odd hours, tea and supper at once, 
or the latter preceding the former; the host and the 
guest conferring, yet each upon a different topic, each 
understanding himself, neither trying to understand 
or hear the other; draughts and politics, chess and 
political economy, cards and conversation on nau- 
tical matters, going on at once, without the hope, or 
indeed the wish, of distinguishing them, make it al- 
together the most perfect concordia discors you shall 
meet with. Yet somehow the old house is not quite 
what it should be. The Admiral still enjoys his pipe, 
but he has no Miss Emily to fill it for him. The in- 
strument stands where it stood, but she is gone, whose 
delicate touch could sometimes for a short minute ap- 
pease the warring elements. He has learned, as Mar- 
vel ^ expresses it, to ' ' make his destiny his choice. ' ' 



468 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

He bears bravely up, but he does not come out with 
his flashes of wild wit so thick as formerly. His sea 
songs seldomer escape him. His wife, too, looks as if 
she wanted some younger body to scold and set to 
rights. We all miss a junior presence. It is wonder- 
ful how one young maiden freshens up, and keeps 
green, the paternal roof. Old and young seem to 
have an interest in her, so long as she is not abso- 
lutely disposed of. The youthfulness of the house is 
flown. Emily is married. 



THE CHILD ANGEL 

A DREAM 

I CHANCED upon the prettiest, oddest, fantastical thing 
of a dream the other night, that you shall hear of. I 
had been reading the ' ' Loves of the Angels, ' ' ^ and 
went to bed with my head full of speculations, sug- 
gested by that extraordinary legend. It had given 
birth to innumerable conjectures; and, I remember, 
the last waking thought, which I gave expression to 
on my pillow, was a sort of wonder ''what could 
come of it." 

I was suddenly transported, how or whither I 
could scarcely make out — but to some celestial region. 
It was not the real heavens neither — ^not the do^vn- 
right Bible heaven — but a kind of fairyland heaven, 
about which a poor human fancy may have leave to 
sport and air itself, I will hope, without presumption. 



THE CHILD ANGEL 469 

Methonght — what wild things dreams are! — I was 
present — at what would you imagine? — at an angel's 
gossiping. 

Whence it came^ or how it came, or who bid it come, 
or whether it came purely of its own head, neither 
you nor I know — but there lay, sure enough, wrapped 
in its little cloudy swaddling bands — a Child Angel. 

Sun-threads — filmy beams — ran through the ce- 
lestial napery of what seemed its princely cradle. All 
the winged orders hovered round, watching when the 
new-born should open its yet closed eyes : which, when 
it did, first one, and then the other — with a solicitude 
and apprehension, yet not such as, stained with fear, 
dim the expanding eye-lids of mortal infants, but as 
if to explore its path in those its unhereditary palaces 
— what an inextinguishable titter that time spared not 
celestial visages ! Nor wanted there to my seeming — ■ 
the inexplicable simpleness of dreams! — bowls of 
that cheering nectar, 

— which mortals caudle call below. 

Nor werei wanting faces of female ministrants, — ■ 
stricken in years, as it might seem, — so dexterous 
were those heavenly attendants to 'counterfeit kindly 
similitudes of earth, to greet, with terrestrial child- 
rites the young present, which earth had made to 
heaven. 

Then were celestial harpings heard, not in full 
symphony as those by which the spheres are tutored ; 
but, as loudest instruments on earth speak oftentimes, 



470 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

muffled; so to accommodate their sound the better to 
the weak ears of the imperfect-born. And, with the 
noise of those subdued soundings, the Angelet sprang 
forth, fluttering its rudiments of pinions — but forth- 
with flagged and was recovered into the arms of those 
full-winged angels. And a wonder it was to see how, 
as years went round in heaven — a year in dreams is 
as a day — continually its white shoulders put forth 
buds of wings, but, wanting the perfect angelic nutri- 
ment, anon was shorn of its aspiring, and fell flutter- 
ing — still caught by angel hands — for ever to put 
forth shoots, and to fall fluttering, because its birth 
was not of the unmixed vigor of heaven. 

And a name was given to the Babe Angel, and it 
was to be called Ge-TJrania,^ because its production 
was of earth and heaven. 

And it could not taste of death, by reason of its 
adoption into immortal palaces : but it was to know 
weakness, and reliance, and the shadow of human im- 
becility; and it went with a lame gait; but in its go- 
ings it exceeded all mortal children in grace and 
swiftness. Then pity first sprang up in angelic bos- 
oms; and yearnings (like the human) touched them 
at the sight of the immortal lame one. 

And with pain did then first those Intuitive Es- 
sences, with pain and strife to their natures (not 
grief), put back their bright intelligences, and re- 
duce their ethereal minds, schooling them to degrees 
and slower processes, so to adapt their lessons to the 
gradual illumination (as must needs be) of the half- 



THE CHILD ANGEL 471 

earth-born ; and what intuitive notices they could not 
repel (by reason that their nature is, to known all 
things at once), the half -heavenly novice, by the bet- 
ter part of its nature, aspired to receive into its un- 
derstanding; so that Humility and Aspiration went 
on even-paced in the instruction of the glorious 
Amphibium. 

But, by reason that Mature Humanity is too gross 
to breathe the air of that super-subtile region, its 
portion was, and is, to be a child for ever. 

And because the human part of it might not press 
into the heart and inwards of the palace of its adop- 
tion, those fuU-natured angels tended it by turns in 
the purlieus of the palace, where were shady groves 
and rivulets, like this green earth from which it came : 
so Love, with Voluntary Humility, waited upon the 
entertainment of the new-adopted. 

And myriads of years rolled round (in dreams 
Time is nothing), and still it kept, and is to keep, 
perpetual childhood, and is the Tutelar Genius ^ of 
Childhood upon earth, and still goes lame and 
lovely. 

By the banks of the river Pison is seen, lone-sitting 
by the grave of the terrestrial Adah, whom the angel 
Nadir loved, a Child; but not the same which I saw 
in heaven. A mournful hue overcasts its lineaments ; 
nevertheless, a correspondency is between the child 
by the grave, and that celestial orphan, whom I saw 
above; and the dimness of the grief upon the 
heavenly, is a shadow or emblem of that which stains 



472 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

the beauty of the terrestial. And this correspond- 
ency is not to be understood but by dreams. 

And in the archives of heaven I had grace to read, 
how that once the angel Nadir, being exiled from his 
place for mortal passion, upspringing on the wings of 
parental love (such power had parental love for a 
moment to suspend the else-irrevocable law) ap- 
peared for a brief instant in his station; and, de- 
positing a wondrous Birth, straightway disappeared, 
and the palaces knew him no more. And this charge 
was the self -same Babe, who goeth lame and lovely — 
but Adah sleepeth by the river Pison. 

OLD CHINA 

I HAVE an almost feminine partiality for old china. 
When I go to see any great house, I enquire for the 
china-closet, and next for the picture gallery. I can- 
not defend the order of preference, but by saying, 
that we have all some taste or other, of too ancient a 
date to admit of our remembering distinctly that it 
was an acquired one. I can call to mind the first 
play, and the first exhibition, that I was taken to; 
but I am not conscious of a time when china jars. and 
saucers were introduced into my imagination. 

I had no repugnance then — why should I now 
have? — to those little, lawless, azure-tinctured gro- 
tesques, that under the notion of men and women, 
float about, uncircumscribed by any element, in that 
world before perspective — a china tea-cup. 



OLD CHINA 473 

I like to see my old friends — whom distance can- 
not diminish — figuring up in the air (so they appear 
to our optics), yet on terra firma still — for so we must 
in courtesy interpret that speck of deeper blue, — ■ 
which the decorous artist, to prevent absurdity, had 
made to spring up beneath their sandals. 

I love the men with women's faces, and the women, 
if possible, with still more womanish expressions : 

Here is a young and courtly Mandarin, handing tea 
to a lady from a salver — two miles 01. See how dis- 
tance seems to set off respect ! And here the same 
lady, or another — for likeness is identity on tea-cups 
— is stepping into a little fairy boat, moored on the 
hither side of this calm garden river, with a dainty 
mincing foot, which in a right angle of incidence (as 
angels go in our world) must infallibly land her in 
the midst of a flowery mead — a furlong off on the 
other side of the same strange stream ! 

Farther on — ^if far or near can be predicated of 
their world — see horses, trees, pagodas, dancing the 
hays. 

Here — a cow and rabbit couchant, and co-extensive 
— so objects show, seen through the lucid atmosphere 
of fine Cathay.^ 

I was pointing out to my cousin last evening, over 
our Hyson, (which we are old fashioned enough to 
drink unmixed still of an afternoon) some of these 
speciosa miracula ^ upon a set of extraordinary old 
blue china ( a recent purchase) which we were now 
for the first time using ; and could not help remark- 



474 THE ESSAYS OF ELI A 

ing, how favorable circumstances had been to us of 
late years, that we could afford to please the eye some- 
times with trifles of this sort — when a passing senti- 
ment seemed to overshade the brows of my companion. 
I am quick at detecting these summer clouds in 
Bridget. 

"I wish the good old times would come again," 
she said, "when we were not quite so rich. I do not 
mean, that I want to be poor ; but there was a middle 
state" — so she was pleased to ramble on, — ''in which 
I am sure we were a great deal happier. A purchase 
is but a purchase, now that you have money enough 
and to spare. Formerly it used to be a triumph. 
When we coveted a cheap luxury (and, ! how much 
ado I had to get you to consent in those times ! ) — we 
were used to have a debate two or three days before, 
and to weigh the for and against, and think what we 
might spare it out of, and what saving we could hit 
upon, that should be an equivalent. A thing was 
worth buying then, when we felt the money that we 
paid for it." 

*'Do you remember the brown suit, which you 
made to hang upon you, till all your friends cried 
shame upon you, it grew so thread-bare — and all be- 
cause of that folio Beaumont and Fletcher,^ which you 
dragged home late at night from Barker's in Covent 
Garden? Do you remember how we eyed it for 
weeks before we could make up our minds to the pur- 
chase, and had not come to a determination till it 
was near ten o 'clock of the Saturday night, when you 



OLD CHINA 475 

set off from Islington, fearing you should be too late 
— and when the old bookseller with some grumbling 
opened his shop, and by the twinkling taper (for he 
was setting bedwards) lighted out the relic from his 
dusty treasures — and when you lugged it home, wish- 
ing it were twice as cumbersome — and when you pre- 
sented it to me — and when we were exploring the per- 
fectness of it {collating you called it) — and while I 
was repairing some of the loose leaves with paste, 
which your impatience would not suffer to be left till 
daybreak — was there no pleasure in being a poor 
man? or can those neat black clothes which you wear 
now, and are so careful to keep brushed, since we 
have become rich and finical,, give you half the hon- 
est vanity, with which you flaunted it about in that 
overworn suit — ^your old corbeau — for four or five 
weeks longer than you should have done, to pacify 
your conscience for the mighty sum of fifteen — or 
sixteen shillings was it? — a great affair we thought 
it then — which you had lavished on the old folio. 
Now you can afford to buy any book that pleases you, 
but I do not see that you ever bring me home any 
nice old purchases now." 

"When you came home with twenty apologies for 
laying out a less number of shillings upon that print 
after Lionardo,^ which we christened the *Lady 
Blanch;' when you looked at the purchase, and 
thought of the money — and thought of the money, 
and looked again at the picture — ^was there no pleas- 
ure in being a poor man ? Now, you have nothing to 



476 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

do but to walk into Colnaghi's, and buy a wilderness 
of Lionardos.^ Yet do you?" 

"Then, do you remember our pleasant walks to 
Enfield, and Potter's Bar, and Waltham, when we 
had a holyday — ^liolydays, and all other fun, are 
gone, now we are rich — and the little hand-basket in 
which I used to deposit our day's fare of savory cold 
lamb and salad — and how you would pry about at 
noon-tide for some decent house, where we might go 
in, and produce our store — only paying for the ale 
that you must call for — and speculate upon the looks 
of the landlady, and whether she was likely to allow 
us a table-cloth — and wish for such another honest 
hostess, as Izaak Walton ^ has described many a one 
on the pleasant banks of the Lea, when he went a fish- 
ing — and sometimes they would prove obliging 
enough, and sometimes they would look grudgingly 
upon us — but we had cheerful looks still for one an- 
other, and would eat our plain food savorily, scarcely 
grudging Piscator his Trout Hall? Now, — when we 
go out a day's pleasuring, which is seldom moreover, 
we ride part of the way — and go into a fine inn, and 
order the best of dinners, never debating the expense 
— which, after all, never has half the relish of those 
chance country snaps, when we were at the mercy of 
uncertain usage, and a precarious welcome." 

*'You are too proud to see a play anywhere now 
but in the pit. Do you remember where it was we 
used to sit, when we saw the Battle of Hexham, and 
the Surrender of Calais,^ and Bannister and Mrs. 



OLD CHINA 477 

Bland in the Children in the Wood ^ — when we 
squeezed out our shillings a-piece to sit three or four 
times in a season in the one-shilling gallery — where 
you felt all the time that you ought not to have 
brought me — and more strongly I felt obligation to 
you for having brought me — and the pleasure was 
the better for a little shame — and when the curtain 
drew up, what cared we for our place in the house, 
or what mattered it where we were sitting, when our 
thoughts were with Rosalind in Arden,^ or with Viola 
at the Court of Illyria ? ^ You used to say, that the 
Gallery was the best place of all for enjoying a play 
socially — that the relish of such exhibitions must 
be in proportion to the infrequency of going — that 
the company we met there, not being in general read- 
ers of plays, were obliged to attend the more, and did 
attend, to what was going on, on the stage — because 
a word lost would have been a chasm, which it was 
impossible for them to fill up. With such reflections 
we consoled our pride then — and I appeal to you, 
whether, as a woman, I met generally with less at- 
tention and accommodation, than I have done since 
in more expensive situations in the house? The get- 
ting in indeed, and the crowding up those inconven- 
ient staircases, was bad enough, — but there was still 
a law of civility to woman recognized to quite as great 
an extent as we ever found in the other passages — 
and how a little difficulty overcome heightened the 
snug seat, and the play, afterwards! Now we can 
only pay our money and walk in. You cannot see, 



478 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

you say, in the galleries now. I am sure we saw, and 
heard too, well enough then — but sight, and all, I think 
is gone with our poverty. ' ' 

"There was pleasure in eating strawberries, before 
they became quite common — in the first dish of peas, 
while they were yet dear — to have them for a nice 
supper, a treat. What treat can we have now? If 
we were to treat ourselves now — that is, to have dain- 
ties a little above our means, it would be selfish and 
wicked. It is very little more that we allow our- 
selves beyond what the actual poor can get at, that 
makes what I call a treat — ^when two people living to- 
gether, as we have done, now and then indulge them- 
selves in a cheap luxury, which both like; while each 
apologizes, and is willing to take both halves of the 
blame to his single share. I see no harm in people 
making much of themselves in that sense of the word. 
It may give them a hint how to make much of others. 
But now — what I mean by the word — we never do 
make much of ourselves. None but the poor can do 
it. I do not mean the veriest poor of all, but persons 
as we were, just above poverty. 

"I know what you were going to say, that it is 
mighty pleasant at the end of the year to make all 
meet, — and much ado we used to have every Thirty- 
first Night of December to account for our exceedings 
— ^many a long face did you make over your puzzled 
accounts, and in contriving to make it out how we had 
spent so much — or that we had not spent so much — 
or that it was impossible we should spend so much 



OLD CHINA 479 

next year^ — and still we found our slender capital de- 
creasing — but then, betwixt ways, and projects, and 
compromises of one sort or another, and talk of cur- 
tailing this charge, and doing without that for the fu- 
ture — and the hope that youth brings, and laughing 
spirits (in which you were never poor till now) we 
pocketed up our loss, and in conclusion, with 'lusty 
brimmers' (as you used to quote it out of hearty 
cheerful Mr. Cotton,'^ as you called him), we used to 
welcome in the 'coming guest.' Now we have no 
reckoning at all at the end of the old year — no flatter- 
ing promises about the new year doing better for us. ' ' 
Bridget is so sparing of her speech on most occa- 
sions, that when she gets into rhetorical vein, I am 
careful how I interrupt it. I could not help, how- 
ever, smiling at the phantom of wealth which her 
dear imagination had conjured up out of a clear in- 
come of a poor — ^hundred pounds a year. "It is true 
we were happier when we were poorer, but we were 
also younger, my cousin. I am afraid we must put 
up with the excess for if we were to shake the super- 
flux into the sea, we should not much mend ourselves. 
That we had much to struggle with, as we grew up 
together, we have reason to be most thankful. It 
strengthened, and knit our compact closer. We could 
never have been what we have been to each other, if 
we had always had the sufficiency which you now com- 
plain of. The resisting power — those natural dila- 
tions of the youthful spirit, which circumstances can- 
not straiten — ^with us are long since passed away. 



480 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Competence to age is supplementary youth, a sorry 
supplement indeed, but I fear the best that is to be 
had. "We must ride, where we formerly walked: 
live better, and lie softer — and shall be wise to do 
so — ^than we had means to do in those good old days 
you speak of. Yet could those days return — could 
you and I once more walk our thirty miles a-day — 
could Bannister and Mrs. Bland again be young, and 
you and I be young to see them — could the good old 
one-shilling gallery days return — they are dreams, my 
cousin, now — but could you and I at this moment, in- 
stead of this quiet argument, by our well-carpeted fire- 
side, sitting on this luxurious sofa — be once more 
struggling up those inconvenient stair cases, pushed 
about, and squeezed, and elbowed by the poorest rab- 
ble of poor gallery scramblers — could I once more 
hear those anxious shrieks of yours — and the delicious 
Thank God, we are safe, which always followed when 
the topmost stair, conquered, let in the first light of the 
whole cheerful theater down beneath us — I know not 
the fathom line that ever touched a descent so deep 
as I would be willing to bury more wealth in than 

Croesus ^ had, or the great Jew R ^ is supposed to 

have, to purchase it. And now do just look at that 
merry little Chinese waiter holding an umbrella, big 
enough for a bed-tester, over the head of that pretty 
insipid half Madonna-ish chit of a lady in that very 
blue summer house.'* 



CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD 481 



CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD 

Dehortations from the use of strong liquors have 
been the favorite topic of sober declaimers in all ages, 
and have been received with abundance of applause 
by water-drinking critics. But with the patient him- 
self, the man that is to be cured, unfortunately their 
sound has seldom prevailed. Yet the evil is ac- 
knowledged, the remedy simple. Abstain. No force 
can oblige a man to raise the glass to his head against 
his will. 'Tis as easy as not to steal, not to tell lies. 

Alas! the hand to pilfer, and the tongue to bear 
false witness, have no constitutional tendency. These 
are actions indifferent to them. At the first instance 
of the reformed will, they can be brought off without 
a murmur. The itching finger is but a figure in 
speech, and the tongue of the liar can with the same 
natural delight give forth useful truths, with which 
it has been accustomed to scatter their pernicious con- 
traries. But when a man has commenced sot 

pause, thou sturdy moralist, thou person of 
stout nerves and a strong head, whose liver is hap- 
pily untouched, and ere thy gorge riseth at the name 
which I have written, first learn what the thing is; 
how much of compassion, how much of human al- 
lowance, thou mayst virtuously mingle with thy dis- 
approbation. Trample not on the ruins of a man. 
Exact not, under so terrible a penalty as infamy, a 
resuscitation from a state of death almost as real as 



482 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

that from which Liazarus rose not but by a miracle. 

Begin a reformation, and custom will make it easy. 
But what if the beginning be dreadful, the first steps 
not like climbing a mountain but going through fire? 
what if the whole system must undergo a change vio- 
lent as that which we conceive of the mutation of 
form in some insects? what if a process comparable 
to flaying alive be to be gone through ? is the weakness 
that sinks under such struggles to be confounded with 
the pertinacity which clings to other vices, which have 
induced no constitutional necessity, no engagement 
of the whole victim, body and soul? 

I have known one in that state, when he has tried 
to abstain but for one evening, — though the poison- 
ous potion had long ceased to bring back its first en- 
chantments, though he was sure it would rather 
deepen his gloom than brighten it, — in the violence 
of the struggle, and the necessity he has felt of get- 
ting rid of the present sensation at any rate, I have 
known him to scream out, to cry aloud, for the an- 
guish and pain of the strife within him. 

Why should I hesitate to declare, that the man of 
whom I speak is myself ? I have no puling apology to 
make to mankind. I see them all in one way or an- 
other deviating from the pure reason. It is to my 
own nature alone I am accountable for the woe that 
I have brought upon it. 

I believe that there are constitutions, robust heads 
and iron insides, whom scarce any excesses can hurt; 
whom brandy (I have seen them drink it like wine), 



CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD 483 

at all events whom wine, taken in ever so plentiful 
measure, can do no worse injury to than just to mud- 
dle their faculties, perhaps never very pellucid. On 
them this discourse is wasted. They would but laugh 
at a weak brother, who, trying his strength with them, 
and coming off foiled from the contest, would fain 
persuade them that such agonistic exercises are dan- 
gerous. It is to a very different description of per- 
sons I speak. It is to the weak, the nervous; to those 
who feel the want of some artificial aid to raise their 
spirits in society to what is no more than the ordi- 
nary pitch of all around them without it. This is 
the secret of our drinking. Such must fly the con- 
vivial board in the first instance, if they do not mean 
to sell themselves for term of life. 

Twelve years ago I had completed my six-and- 
twentieth year. I had lived from the period of leaving 
school to that time pretty much in solitude. My com- 
panions were chiefly books, or at most one or two 
living ones of my own book-loving and sober stamp. I 
rose early, went to bed betimes, and the faculties 
which God had given me, I have reason to think did 
not rust in me unused. 

About that time I fell in with some companions of 
a different order. They were men of boisterous spir- 
its, sitters up a-nights, disputants, drunken; yet 
seemed to have something noble about them. We 
dealt about the wit, or what passes for it after mid- 
night jovially. Of the quality called fancy I cer- 
tainly possessed a larger share than my companions. 



484 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Encouraged by their applause, I set up for a pro- 
fessed joker! I, who of all men am least fitted for 
such an occupation, having, in addition to the greatest 
difficulty which I experience at all times of finding 
words to express my meaning, a natural nervous im- 
pediment in my speech ! 

Eeader, if you are gifted with nerves like mine, 
aspire to any character but that of a wit. When you 
find a tickling relish upon your tongue disposing you 
to that sort of conversation, especially if you find a 
preternatural flow of ideas setting in upon you at the 
sight of a bottle and fresh glasses, avoid giving way 
to it as you would fly your greatest destruction. If 
you cannot crush the power of fancy, or that within 
you which you mistake for such, divert it, give it some 
other play. Write an essay, pen a character or de-' 
scription,^but not as I do now, with tears trickling 
down your cheeks. 

To be an object of compassion to friends, of deri- 
sion to foes ; to be suspected by strangers, stared at by 
fools; to be esteemed dull when you cannot be witty, 
to be applauded for witty when you know that you 
have been dull ; to be called upon for the extempo- 
raneous exercise of that faculty which no premedita- 
tion can give ; to be spurred on to efforts which end 
in contempt ; to be set on to provoke mirth which pro- 
cures the procurer hatred; to give pleasure and be 
paid with squinting malice; to swallow draughts of 
life-destroying wine which are to be distilled into airy 
breath to tickle vain auditors; to mortgage miserable 



CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD 485 

morrows for nights of madness; to waste whole seas 
of time upon those who pay it back in little inconsid- 
erable drops of grudging applause, — are the wages 
of buffoonery and death. 

Time, which has a sure stroke at dissolving all 
connections which have no solider fastening than 
this liquid cement, more kind to me than my own 
taste or penetration, at length opened my eyes to the 
supposed qualities of my first friends. No trace of 
them is left but in the vices which they introduced, and 
the habits they infixed. In them my friends survive 
still, and exercise ample retribution for any supposed 
infidelity that I may have been guilty of towards 
them. 

My next more immediate companions were and are 
persons of such intrinsic and felt worth, that though 
accidentally their acquaintance has proved pernicious 
to me, I do not know that if the thing were to do over 
again, I should have the courage to eschew the mis- 
chief at the price of forfeiting the benefit. I came to 
them reeking from the steams of my late over-heated 
notions of companionship; and the slightest fuel 
which they unconsciously afforded, was sufficient to 
feed my old fires into a propensity. 

They were no drinkers, but, one from professional 
habits, and another from a custom derived from his 
father, smoked tobacco. The devil could not have de- 
vised a more subtle trap to re-take a blacksliding pen- 
itent. The transition, from gulping down draughts of 
liquid fire to puffing out innocuous blasts of dry smoke. 



486 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

was so like cheating' him. But he is too hard for us 
when we hope to commute. He beats us at barter; 
and when we think to set off a new failing against an 
old infirmity, 'tis odds but he puts the trick upon us 
of two for one. That (comparatively) white devil of 
tobacco brought with him in the end seven worse than 
himself. 

It were impertinent to carry the reader through all 
the processes by which, from smoking at first with 
malt liquor, I took my degrees through thin wines, 
through stronger wine and water, through small 
punch, to those juggling compositions, which, under 
the name of mixed liquors, slur a great deal of brandy 
or other poison under less and less water continually, 
until they come next to none, and so to none at all. 
But it is hateful to disclose the secrets of my Tar- 
tarus.^ 

I should repel my readers, from a mere incapacity 
of believing me, were I to tell them what tobacco has 
been to me, the drudging service which I have paid, 
the slavery which I have vowed to it. How, when I 
have resolved to quit it, a feeling as of ingratitude has 
started up; how it has put on personal claims and 
made the demands of a friend upon me. How the 
reading of it casually in a book, as where Adams 
takes his whiff in the chimney-corner of some inn in 
Joseph Andrews,^ or Piscator in the Complete Angler ^ 
breaks his fast upon a morning pipe in that delicate 
room Piscatoinhus Sacrum, has in a moment broken 
down the resistence of weeks. How a pipe was ever in 



CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD 487 

my midnight path before me, till the vision forced me 
to realize it, — how then its ascending vapors curled, its 
fragrance lulled, and the thousand delicious minis- 
terings conversant about it, employing every faculty, 
extracted the sense of pain. How from illuminating 
it came to darken, from a quick solace it turned to a 
negative relief, thence to a restlessness and dissatis- 
faction, thence to a positive misery. 

How, even now, when the whole secret stands con- 
fessed in all its dreadful truth before me, I feel my- 
self linked to it beyond the power of revocation. 
Bone of my bone 

Persons not accustomed to examine the motives of 
their actions, to reckon up the countless nails that 
rivet the chains of habit, or perhaps being bound by 
none so obdurate as those I have confessed to, may re- 
coil from this as from an overcharged picture. But 
what short of such a bondage is it, which in spite of 
protesting friends, a weeping wife and a reprobating 
world, chains down many a poor fellow, of no original 
indisposition to goodness, to his pipe and his pot? 

I have seen a print after Correggio,^ in which three 
female figures are ministering to a man who sits fast 
bound at the root of a tree. Sensuality is soothing 
him, Evil Habit is nailing him to a branch, and Re- 
pugnance at the same instant of time is applying a 
snake to his side. In his face is feeble delight, the 
recollection of past rather than perception of present 
pleasures, languid enjoyment of evil with utter im- 
becility to good, a Sybaritic effeminacy, a submission 



488 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

to bondage, the springs of the will gone down like a 
broken clock, the sin and the suffering co-instantane- 
ous, or the latter forerunning the former, remorse 
preceding action — all this represented in one point of 
time. — When I saw this, I admired the wonderful 
skill of the painter. But when I went away, I wept, 
because I thought of my own condition. 

Of that there is no hope that it should ever change. 
The waters have gone over me. But out of the black 
depths, could I be heard, I would cry out to all those 
who have but set f-oot in the perilous flood. Could 
the youth, to whom the flavor of his first wine is de- 
licious as the opening scenes of life or the entering 
upon some newly discovered paradise, look into my 
desolation, and be made to understand what a dreary 
thing it is when a man shall feel himself going down 
a precipice with open eyes and a passive will, — to see 
his destruction and have no power to stop it, and yet 
to feel it all the way emanating from himself ; to per- 
ceive all goodness emptied out of him, and yet not to 
be able to forget a time when it was otherwise; to 
bear about the piteous spectacle of his own self -ruins ; 
— could he see my fevered eye, feverish with last 
night's drinking, and feverishly looking for this 
night's repetition of the folly; could he feel the body 
of the death out of which I cry hourly with feebler 
and feebler outcry to be delivered, — it were enough to 
make him dash the sparkling beverage to the earth' in 
all the pride of its mantling temptation ; to make him 
clasp his teeth, 



CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD 489 

and not undo 'em 
To suffer wet damnation to run thro' 'em. 

Yea, but (methinks I hear somebody object) if so- 
briety be that fine thing you would have us to under- 
stand, if the comforts of a cool brain are to be pre- 
ferred to that state of heated excitement which you 
describe and deplore, what hinders in your own in- 
stance that you do not return to those habits from 
which you would induce others never to swerve? if 
the blessing be worth preserving, is it not worth re- 
covering ? 

Recovering! — if a wish could transport me back 
to those days of youth, when a draught from the next 
clear spring could slake any heats which summer suns 
and youthful exercise had power to stir up in the 
blood, how gladly would I return to thee, pure ele- 
ment, the drink of children, and of child-like holy 
hermit. In my dreams I can sometimes fancy thy 
cool refreshment purling over my burning tongue. 
But my waking stomach rejects it. That which re- 
freshes innocence, only makes me sick and faint. 

But is there no middle way betwixt total abstinence 
and the excess which kills you? — For your sake, 
reader, and that you may never attain to my experi- 
ence, with pain I must utter the dreadful truth, that 
there is none, none that I can find. In my stage of 
habit (I speak not of habits less confirmed — for some 
of them I believe the advice to be most prudential) 
in the stage which I have reached, to stop short of 
that measure which is sufficient to draw on torpor and 



490 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

sleep, the benumbing apoplectic sleep of the drunkard, 
is to have taken none at all. The pain of the self-de- 
nial is all one. And what that is, I had rather the 
reader should believe on my credit, than know from 
his own trial. He will come to know it, whenever 
he shall arrive in that state^ in which, paradoxical as 
it may appear, reason shall only visit him through in- 
toxication: for it is a fearful truth, that the intellect- 
ual faculties by repeated acts of intemperance may be 
driven from their orderly sphere of action, their clear 
day-light ministries, until they shall be brought at 
last to depend, for the faint manifestation of their de- 
parting energies, upon the returning periods of the 
fatal madness to which they owe their devastation. 
The drinking man is never less himself than during 
his sober intervals. Evil is so far his good.* 

Behold me then, in the robust period of life, re- 
duced to imbecility and decay. Hear me count my 
gains, and the profits which I have derived from the 
midnight cup. 

Twelve years ago I was possessed of a healthy 
frame of mind and body. I was never strong, but I 
think my constitution (for a weak one) was as hap- 
pily exempt from the tendency to any malady as it 
was possible to be. I scarce knew what it was to ail 

* ^¥lien poor M painted his last picture, with a pen- 
cil in one trembling hand and a glass of brandy and water in 
the other, his fingers owed the comparative steadiness, with 
which they Avere enabled to go through their task in an im- 
perfect manner, to a temporary firmness derived from a repe- 
tition of practices, the general effect of which had shaken 
both them and him so terribly. 



CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD 491 

anything. Now, except when I am losing myself in a 
sea of drink, I am never free from those uneasy sen- 
sations in head and stomach, which are so much worse 
to bear than any definite pains or aches. 

At that time I was seldom in bed after six in the 
morning, summer and winter. I awoke refreshed, 
and seldom without some merry thoughts in my head, 
or some piece of a song to welcome the new-born day. 
Now, the first feeling which besets me, after stretch- 
ing out the hours of recumbence to their last possible 
extent, is a forecast of the wearisome day that lies be- 
fore me, with a secret wish that I could have lain on 
still, or never awaked. 

Life itself, my waking life, has much of the con- 
fusion, the trouble, and obscure perplexity, of an ill 
dream. In the day time I stumble upon dark moun- 
tains. 

Business, which, though never particularly adapted 
to my nature, yet as something' of necessity to be 
gone through, and therefore best undertaken with 
cheerfulness, I used to enter upon with some degree 
of alacrity, now wearies, affrights, perplexes me. I 
fancy all sorts of discouragements, and am ready to 
give up an occupation which gives me bread, from a 
harassing conceit of incapacity. The slightest com- 
mission given me by a friend, or any small duty which 
I have to perform for myself, as giving orders to a 
tradesman, etc., haunts me as a labor impossible to 
be got through. So much the springs of action are 
broken. 



492 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

The same cowardice attends me in all my inter- 
course with mankind. I dare not promise that a 
friend's honor, or his cause, would be safe in my keep- 
ing, if I were put to the expense of any manly 
resolution in defending it. So much the springs of 
moral action are deadened within me. 

My favorite occupations in times past, now cease 
to entertain. I can do nothing readily. Application 
for ever so short a time kills me. This poor abstract 
of my condition was penned at long intervals, with 
scarcely any attempt at connection of thought, which 
is now difficult to me. 

The noble passages which formerly delighted me in 
history or poetic fiction, now only draw a few weak 
tears, allied to dotage. My broken and dispirited na- 
ture seems to sink before anything great and admira- 
ble. 

I perpetually catch myself in tears, for any cause, 
or none. It is inexpressible how much this infirmity 
adds to a sense of shame, and a general feeling of 
deterioration. 

These are some of the instances, concerning which 
I can say with truth, that it was not always so with 
me. 

Shall I lift up the veil of my weakness any further ? 
or is this disclosure sufficient? 

I am a poor nameless egotist, who have no vanity 
to consult by these Confessions. I know not whether 
I shall be laughed at, or heard seriously. Such as 
they are, I commend them to the reader 's attention, if 



POPULAR FALLACIES 493 

he find his own case any way touched. I have told 
him what I am come to. Let him stop in time. 



POPULAR FALLACIES 
I 

THAT A BULLY IS ALWAYS A COWARD 

This axiom contains a principle of compensation, 
which disposes us to admit the truth of it. But there 
is no safe trusting to dictionaries and definitions. 
We should more willingly fall in with this popular 
language, if we did not find brutality sometimes awk- 
wardly coupled with valor in the same vocabulary. 
The comic writers, with their poetical justice, have 
contributed not a little to mislead us upon this point. 
To see a hectoring fellow exposed and beaten upon 
the stage, has something in it wonderfully diverting. 
Some people's share of animal spirits is notoriously 
low and defective. It has not strength to raise a 
vapor, or furnish out the wind of a tolerable bluster. 
These love to be told that huffing is no part of valor. 
The truest courage with them is that which is the 
least noisy and obtrusive. But confront one of these 
silent heroes with the swaggerer of real life, and his 
confidence in the theory quickly vanishes. Preten- 
sions do not uniformly bespeak non-performance. A 
modest inoffensive deportment does not necessarily 
imply valor ; neither does the absence of it justify us 



494 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

in denying that quality. Hickman ^ wanted modesty 
■ — we do not mean him of Clarissa — but who ever 
doubted his courage? Even the poets — upon whom 
this equitable distribution of qualities should be most 
binding — have thought it agreeable to nature to de- 
part from the rule upon occasion. Harapha, in the 
' ' Agonistes, " ^ is indeed a bully upon the received no- 
tions. Milton has made him at once a blusterer, a 
giant, and a dastard. But Almanzor,^ in Dryden, 
talks of driving armies singly before him — and does 
it. Tom Brown * had a shrewder insight into this 
kind of character than either of his predecessors. He 
divides the palm more equably, and allows his hero 
a sort of dimidiate pre-eminence : — ' ' Bully Dawson 
kicked by half the town, and half the town kicked 
by Bully Dawson." This was true distributive jus- 
tice. 

II 

THAT ILL-GOTTEN GAIN NEVER PROSPERS 

The weakest part of mankind have this saying 
commonest in their mouth. It is the trite consola- 
tion administered to the easy dupe, when he has been 
tricked out of his money or estate, that the acquisi- 
tion of it will do the owner 710 good. But the rogues 
of this world — the prudenter part of them, at least — 
know better: and, if the observation had been as 
true as it is old, would not have failed by this time 
to have discovered it. They have pretty sharp dis- 
tinctions of the fluctuating and the permanent. 



POPULAR FALLACIES 495 

''Lightly come, lightly go/' is a proverb, which they 
can very well afford to leave, when they leave little 
else, to the losers. They do not always find manors, 
got by rapine or chicanery, insensibly to melt away, 
as the poets will have it; or that all gold glides, like 
thawing snow, from the thief's hand that grasps it. 
Chnrch land, alienated to lay uses, was formerly de- 
nounced to have this slippery quality. But some 
portions of it somehow always stuck so fast, that the 
denunciators have been fain to postpone the prophecy 
of refundment to a late posterity. 

Ill 

THAT A MAN MUST NOT LAUGH AT HIS OWN JEST 

The severest exaction surely ever invented upon 
the self-denial of poor human nature ! This is to 
expect a gentleman to give a treat without partaking 
of it; to sit esurient at his own table, and commend 
the flavor of his venison upon the absurd strength 
of his never touching it himself. On the contrary, we 
love to see a wag taste his own joke to his party; to 
watch a quirk, or a merry conceit, flickering upon 
the lips some seconds before the tongue is delivered 
of it. If it be good, fresh, and racy — begotten of 
the occasion ; if he that utters it never thought it be- 
fore, he is naturally the first to be tickled with it; 
and any suppression of such complacence we hold to 
be churlish and insulting. What does it seem to im- 
ply, but that your company is weak or foolish enough 



496 TBE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

to be moved by an image or a fancy, that shall stir 
you not at all, or but faintly? This is exactly the 
humor of the fine gentleman in Mandeville,^ who, 
while he dazzles his guests with the display of some 
costly toy, affects himself to "see nothing consid- 
erable in it." 

IV 

THAT SUCH A ONE SHOWS HIS BREEDING THAT IT IS 

EASY TO PERCEIVE HE IS NO GENTLEMAN 

A speech from the poorer sort of people, which al- 
ways indicates that the party vituperated is a gentle- 
man. The very fact which they deny, is that which 
galls and exasperates them to use this language. The 
forbearance with which it is usually received, is a 
proof what interpretation the bystander sets upon it. 
Of a kin to this, and still less politic, are the phrases 
with which, in their street rhetoric, they ply one an- 
other more grossly; — He is a poor creature. — He has 
not a rag to cover ^ etc.; though this last, we con- 
fess is more frequently applied by females to females. 
They do not perceive that the satire glances upon 
themselves. A poor man, of all things in the world, 
should not upbraid an antagonist with poverty. Are 
there no other topics — as, to tell him his father was 
hanged — his sister, etc. , without exposing a se- 
cret, which should be kept snug between them.; and 
doing an affront to the order to which they have the 
honor equally to belong? All this while they do not 



POPULAR FALLACIES 497 

see how the wealthier man stands by and laughs in 
his sleeve as both. 



THAT THE POOR COPY THE VICES OP THE RICH 

A smooth text to the latter; and, preached from 
the pnlpit, is sure of a docile audience from the pews 
lined with satin. It is twice sitting upon velvet to a 
foolish squire to be told, that he — and not perverse 
nature, as the homilies would make us imagine, is the 
true cause of all the irregularities in his parish. This 
is striking at the root of free-will indeed, and deny- 
ing the originality of sin in any sense. But men are 
not such implicit sheep as this comes to. If the ab- 
stinence from evil on the part of the upper classes is 
to derive itself from no higher principle than the 
apprehension of setting ill patterns to the lower, we 
beg leave to discharge them from all squeamishness on 
that score : they may even take their fill of pleasures, 
where they can find them. The Genius of Poverty, 
hampered and straitened as it is, is not so barren of 
invention but it can trade upon the staple of its own 
vice, without drawing upon their capital. The poor 
are not quite such servile imitators as they take them 
for. Some of them are very clever artists in their 
way. Here and there we find an original. Who 
taught the poor to steal, to pilfer? They did not go 
to the great for schoolmasters in these faculties surely. 
It is well if in some vices they allow us to be — ^no 



498 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

copyists. In no other sense is it true that the poor 
copy them, than as servants may be said to take after 
their masters and mistresses, when they succeed to 
their reversionary cold meats. If the master, from in- 
disposition or some other cause, neglect his food, the 
servant dines notwithstanding. 

"0, but (some will say) the force of example is 
great." We knew a lady who was so scrupulous on 
this headj that she would put up with the calls of the 
most impertinent visitor, rather than let her servant 
say she was not at home, for fear of teaching her 
maid to tell an untruth ; and this in the very face of 
the fact, which she knew well enough, that the wench 
was one of the greatest liars upon the earth without 
teaching; so much so, that her mistress possibly never 
heard two words of consecutive truth from her in her 
life. But nature must go for nothing: example 
must be everything. This liar in grain, who never 
opened her mouth without a lie, must be guarded 
against a remote inference, which she (pretty 
casuist ! ) might possibly draw from a form of 
words — literally false, but essentially deceiving no 
one — that under some circumstances a fib might not 
be so exceedingly sinful — a fiction, too, not at all in 
her own way, or one that she could be suspected of 
adopting, for few servant-wenches care to be denied 
to visitors. 

This word example reminds us of another fine word 
which is in use upon these occasions — encouragement. 
''People in our sphere must not be thought to give 



POPULAR FALLACIES 499 

encouragement to such proceedings." To such a 
frantic height is this principle capable of being car- 
ried, that we have known individuals who have 
thought it within the scope of their influence to sanc- 
tion despair, and give eclat to — suicide. A domestic 
in the family of a county member lately deceased, 
from love, or some unknown cause, cut his throat, but 
not successfully. The poor fellow was otherwise 
much loved and respected; and great interest was 
used in his behalf, upon his recovery, that he might 
be permitted to retain his place ; his word being first 
pledged, not without some substantial sponsors to 
promise for him, that the like should never happen 
again. His master was inclinable to keep him, but his 
mistress thought otherwise ; and John in the end was 
dismissed, her ladyship declaring that she "could not 
think of encouraging any such doings in the county." 

YI 

THAT ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST 

Not a man, woman, or child in ten miles round 
Guildhall, who really believes this saying. The in- 
ventor of it did not believe it himself. It was made 
in revenge by somebody, who was disappointed of a 
regale. It is a vile cold-scrag-of-mutton sophism; a 
lie palmed upon the palate, which knows better things. 
If nothing else could be said for a feast, this is suffi- 
cient, that from the superflux there is usually some- 
thing left for the next day. Morally interpreted, it 



500 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

belongs to a class of proverbs, which have a tendency 
to make us undervalue money. Of this cast are those 
notable observations, that money is not health ; riches 
cannot purchase every thing; the metaphor which 
makes gold to be mere muck, with the morality which 
traces fine clothing to the sheep 's back, and denounces 
pearl as the unhandsome excretion of an oyster. 
Hence, too, the phrase which imputes dirt to acres — 
a sophistry so barefaced, that even the literal sense of 
it is true only in a wet season. This, and abundance 
of similar sage saws assuming to inculcate content, we 
verily believe to have been the invention of some cun- 
ning borrower, who had designs upon the purse of his 
wealthier neighbor, which he could only hope to carry 
by force of these verbal jugglings. Translate any 
one of these sayings out of the artful metonyme 
which envelops it, and the trick is apparent. Goodly 
legs and shoulders of mutton, exhilarating cordials, 
books, pictures, the opportunities of seeing foreign 
countries, independence, heart's ease, a man's own 
time to himself, are not muck — ^however we may be 
pleased to scandalize with that appellation the faith- 
ful metal that provides them for us. 



VII 

OF TWO DISPUTANTS, THE WARMEST IS GENERALLY IN 

THE WRONG 

Our experience would lead us to quite an opposite 
conclusion. Temper, indeed, is no test of truth; but 



POPULAR FALLACIES 501 

warmth and earnestness are a proof at least of a man's 
own conviction of the rectitude of that which he main- 
tains. Coolness is as often the result of an unprin- 
cipled indifference to truth or falsehood, as of a sober 
confidence in a man's own side in a dispute. Noth- 
ing is more insulting sometimes than the appearance 
of this philosophic temper. There is little Titubus, 
the stammering law-stationer in Lincoln's Inn — we 
have seldom known this shrewd little fellow engaged 
in an argument where we were not convinced he had 
the best of it, if his tongue would but fairly have sec- 
onded him. When he has been spluttering excellent 
broken sense for an hour together, writhing and labor- 
ing to be delivered of the point of dispute— the very 
gist of the controversy knocking at his teeth, which 
like some obstinate iron-grating still obstructed its 
deliverance — his puny frame convulsed, and face red- 
dening all over at an unfairness^ in the logic which he 
wanted articulation to expose, it has moved our gall 
to see a smooth portly fellow of an adversary, that 
cared not a button for the merits of the question, by 
merely laying his hand upon the head of the stationer, 
and desiring him to be calm (your tall disputants 
have always the advantage), with a provoking sneer 
carry the argument clean from him in the opinion of 
all the bystanders, who have gone away clearly con- 
vinced that Titubus must have been in the wrong be- 
cause he was in a passion ; and that Mr , meaning 

his opponent, is one of the fairest, and at the same 
time one of the most dispassionate arguers breathing. 



502 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 



VIII 

THAT VERBAL ALLUSIONS ARE NOT WIT, BECAUSE THEY 
WILL NOT BEAR A TRANSLATION 

The same might be said of the wittiest local allu- 
sions. A custom is sometimes as difficult to explain to 
a foreigner as a pun. What would become of a great 
part of the wit of the last age, if it were tried by this 
test ? How would certain topics, as aldermanity, cuck- 
oldry, have sounded to a Terentian auditory, though 
Terence ^ himself had been alive to translate them ? 
Senator urhanus, with Curriica ^ to boot for a syno- 
nym, would but faintly have done the business. 
"Words, involving notions, are hard enough to render ; 
it is too much to expect us to translate a sound, and 
give an elegant version to a jingle. The Virgilian har- 
mony is not translatable, but by substituting harmo- 
nious sounds in another language for it. To Latinize 
a pun, we must seek a pun in Latin, that will answer 
to it ; as, to give an idea of the double endings in Hud- 
ibras,^ we must have recourse to a similar practice in 
the old monkish doggerel. Dennis,* the fiercest op- 
pugner of puns in ancient or modern times, professes 
himself highly tickled with the ''a stick" chiming to 
''.ecclesiastic." Yet what is this but a species of pun, 
a verbal consonance? 



POPULAR FALLACIES 503 

IX 

THAT THE WORST PUNS ARE THE BEST 

If by the worst be only meant the most far-fetched 
and startling, we agree to it. A pun is not bound 
by the laws which limit nicer wit. It is a pistol let 
off at the ear; not a feather to tickle the intellect. 
It is an antic which does not stand upon manners, 
but comes bounding into the presence/ and does not 
show the less comic for being dragged in sometimes by 
the head and shoulders. What though it limp a little, 
or prove defective in one leg — all the better. A pun 
may easily be too curious and artificial. Who has 
not at one time or other been at a party of profes- 
sors (himself perhaps an old offender in that line), 
where, after ringing a round of the most ingenious 
conceits, every man contributing his shot, and some 
there the most experts shooters of the day ; after mak- 
ing a poor word run the gauntlet till it is ready to 
drop ; after hunting and winding it through all the 
possible ambages of similar sounds; after squeezing 
and hauling, and tugging at it, till the very milk of it 
will not yield a drop further, — suddenly some obscure, 
unthought-of fellow in the corner, who was never 
'prentice to the trade, whom the company for very 
pity passed over, as we do by a known poor man when 
a money-subscription is going round, no one calling 
upon him for his quota — has all at once come out with 
something so whimsical, yet so pertinent ; so brazen in 



504 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

its pretensions, yet so impossible to be denied; so ex- 
quisitely good, and so deplorably bad, at the same 
time, — that it has proved a Robin Hood 's shot ;^ any 
thing ulterior to that is despaired of; and the party 
breaks up, unanimously voting it to be the very worst 
(that is, best) pun of the evening. This species of 
wit is the better for not being perfect in all its 
parts. What it gains in completeness, it loses in nat- 
uralness. The more exactly it satisfies the critical, 
the less hold it has upon some other faculties. The 
puns which are most entertaining are those which will 
least bear an analysis. Of this kind is the follow- 
ing, recorded with a sort of stigma, in one of Swift's 
Miscellanies.^ 

An Oxford scholar, meeting a porter who was car- 
rying a hare through the streets, accosts him with this 
extraordinary question : ' ' Prithee, friend, is that thy 
own hare, or a wig?" 

There is no excusing this, and no resisting it. A 
man might blur ten sides of paper in attempting a 
■defense of it against a critic who should be laughter- 
proof. The quibble in itself is not considerable. It 
is only a new turn given, by a little false pronuncia- 
tion, to a very common, though not very courteous 
inquiry. Put by one gentleman to another at a din- 
ner-party, it would have been vapid; to the mistress 
of the house, it would have shown much less wit than 
rudeness. We must take in the totality of time, 
place, and person; the pert look of the inquiring 
scholar, the desponding looks of the puzzled porter; 



POPULAR FALLACIES 505 

the one stopping at leisure, the other hurrying on 
with his burthen; the innocent though rather abrupt 
tendency of the first member of the question, with the 
utter and inextricable irrele.vancy of the second; the 
place — a public street, not favorable to frivolous in- 
vestigations ; the affrontive quality of the primitive 
inquiry (the common question) invidiously trans- 
ferred to the derivative (the new turn given to it) 
in the implied satire; namely, that few of that tribe 
are expected to eat of the good things which they 
carry, they being in most countries considered rather 
as the temporary trustees than owners of such dain- 
ties, — which the fellow was beginning to understand ; 
but then the wig again comes in, and he can make 
nothing of it; all put together constitute a picture: 
Hogarth could have made it intelligible on canvas. 

Yet nine out of ten critics will pronounce this a 
very bad pun, because of the defectiveness in the con- 
cluding member, which is its very beauty, and consti- 
tutes the surprise. The same persons shall cry up for 
admirable the cold quibble from Virgil about the 
broken Cremona ;* ^ because it is made out in all its 
parts, and leaves nothing to the imagination. We 
venture to call it cold ; because of thousands who have 
admired it, it would be difficult to find one who has 
heartily chuckled at it. As appealing to the judg- 
ment merely (setting the risible faculty aside), we 
must pronounce it a monument of curious felicity. 
But as some stories are said to be too good to be true, 

* Swift: 



506 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

it may with equal truth be asserted of this bi-verbal 
allusion, that it is too good to be natural. One can- 
not help suspecting that the incident was invented to 
fit the line. It would have been better had it been 
less perfect. Like some Yirgilian hemistichs, it has 
suffered by filling up. The nimium Vicina ^ was 
enough in conscience; the Cremonce afterwards loads 
it. It is in fact a double pun; and we have always 
observed that a superfoetation in this sort of wit is 
dangerous. When a man has said a good thing, it is 
seldom politic to follow it up. We do not care to be 
cheated a second time ; or, perhaps, the mind of man 
(with reverence be it spoken) is not capacious enough 
to lodge two puns at a time. The impression, to be 
forcible, must be simultaneous and undivided. 



X 

THAT HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES 

Those who use this proverb can never have seen 
Mrs. Conrady. 

The soul, if we may believe Plotinus,^ is a ray from 
the celestial beauty. As she partakes more or less of 
this heavenly light, she informs, with corresponding 
characters, the fleshly tenement which she chooses, 
and frames to herself a suitable mansion. 

All which only proves that the soul of Mrs. Con- 
rady, in her pre-existent state, was no great judge of 
architecture. 



POPULAR FALLACIES 507 

To the same effect, in a Hymn in honor of Beauty, 
divine Spenser platomizing, sings : — 

" Every spirit as it is more pure, 

And hath in it the more of heavenly light, 
So it the fairer body doth procure 
To habit in, and it more fairly dight 
With cheerful grace and amiable sight. 
For of the soul the body form doth take: 
For soul is form and doth the body make." 



But Spenser, it is clear, never saw Mrs. Conrady. 

These poets, we find, are no safe guides in philos- 
ophy; for here, in his very next stanza but one, is 
a saving clause, which throws us all out again, and 
leaves us as much to seek as ever: — 

" Yet oft it falls, that many a gentle mind 
Dwells in deformed tabernacle drown'd. 
Either by chance, against the course of kind. 
Or through unaptness in the substance found, 
Which it assumed of some stubborn ground, 
That will not yield unto her form's direction. 
But is performed with some foul imperfection." i 

From which it would follow, that Spenser had seen 
somebody like Mrs. Conrady. 

The spirit of this good lady — her previous anima 
— ^must have stumbled upon one of these untoward 
tabernacles which he speaks of. A more rebellious 
commodity of clay for a ground, as the poet calls 
it, no gentle mind — and sure hers is one of the 
gentlest — ever had to deal with. 

Pondering upon her inexplicable visage — ^inexpli- 



508 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

cable, we mean, but by this modification of the the- 
ory — we have come to a conclusion that, if one must 
be plain, it is better to be plain all over, than, amidst 
a tolerable residue of features, to hang out one that 
shall be exceptionable. No one can say of Mrs. Con- 
rady's countenance that it would be better if she had 
but a nose. It is impossible to pull her to pieces in 
this manner. We have seen the most malicious 
beauties of her own sex baffled in the attempt at a 
selection. The tout ensemble defies particularizing. 
It is too complete — too consistent, as we may say — 
to admit of these invidious reservations. It is not as 
if some Appelles ^ had picked out here a lip — and there 
a chin — out of the collected ugliness of Greece, to 
frame a model by. It is a symmetrical whole. We 
challenge the minutest connoisseur to cavil at any 
part or parcel of the countenance in question; to 
say that this, or that, is improperly placed. We are 
convinced that true ugliness, no less than is affirmed 
of true beauty, is the result of harmony. Like that 
too it reigns without a competitor. No one ever saw 
Mrs. Conrady, without pronouncing her to be the 
plainest woman that he ever met with in the course 
of his life. The first time that you are indulged with 
a sight of her face, is an era in your existence ever 
after. You are glad to have seen it — like Stonehenge. 
No one can pretend to forget it. No one ever apol- 
ogized to her for meeting her in the street on such a 
day and not knowing her : the pretext would be too 
bare. Nobody can mistake her for another. No- 



POPULAR FALLACIES 509 

body can say of her, ''I think I have seen that face 
somewhere, but I cannot call to mind where." You 
must remember that in such a parlor it first struck 
you — like a bust. You wondered where the owner 
of the house had picked it up. You wondered more 
when it began to move its lips — so mildly too ! No 
one ever thought of asking her to sit for her picture. 
Lockets are for remembrance ; and it would be clearly 
superfluous to hang an image at your heart, which, 
once seen, can never be out of it. It is not a mean 
face either; its entire originality precludes that. 
Neither is it of that order of plain faces which im- 
prove upon acquaintance. Some very good but or- 
dinary people, by an unwearied perseverance in good 
offices, put a cheat upon our eyes; juggle our senses 
out of their natural impressions ; and set us upon dis- 
covering good indications in a countenance, which at 
first sight promised nothing less. We detect gentle- 
ness, which had escaped us, lurking about an under 
lip. But when Mrs. Conrady has done you a service, 
her face remains the same; when she has done you 
a thousand, and you know that she is ready to double 
the number, still it is that individual face. Neither 
can you say of it, that it would be a good face if it 
were not marked by the small pox — a compliment 
which is always more admissive than excusatory — 
for either Mrs. Conrady never had the small pox : or, 
as we say, took it kindly. No, it stands upon its own 
merits fairly. There it is. It is her Riark, her 
token; that which she is known by. 



510 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

XI 

THAT WE MUST NOT LOOK A GIFT-HORSE IN THE. MOUTH 

Nor a lady's age in the parish register. We hope 
we have more delicacy than to do either; but some 
faces spare us the trouble of these dental inquiries. 
And what if the beast, which my friend would force 
upon my acceptance, prove, upon the face of it, a 
sorry Rosinante, a lean, ill-favored jade, whom no gen- 
tleman could think of setting up in his stables? 
Must I, rather than not be obliged to my friend, 
make her a companion to Eclipse or Lightfoot? A 
horse-giver, no more than a horse-seller, has a right 
to palm his spavined article upon us for good ware. 
An equivalent is expected in either case; and, with 
my own good will, I would no more be cheated out 
of my thanks than out of my money. Some people 
have a knack of putting upon you gifts of no real 
value, to engage you to substantial gratitude. We 
thank them for nothing. Our friend Mitis carries 
this humor of never refusing a present, to the very 
point of absurdity — if it were possible to couple the 
ridiculous with so much mistaken delicacy, and real 
good nature. Not an apartment in his fine house 
(and he has a true taste in household decorations), 
but is stuffed up with some preposterous print or 
mirror — the worst adapted to his panels that may 
be — the presents of his friends that know his weak- 
ness ; while his noble Vandykes are displaced, to make 



POPULAR FALLACIES 511 

room for a set of daubs, the work of some wretched 
artist of his acquaintance, who, having had them re- 
turned upon his hands for bad likenesses, finds his 
account in bestowing them here gratis. The good 
creature has not the heart to mortify the painter at 
the expense of an honest refusal. It is pleasant (if 
it did not vex one at the same time) to see him sitting 
in his dining parlor, surrounded with obscure aunts 
and cousins to God knows whom, while the true 
Lady Marys and Lady Bettys of his own honorable 
family, in favor to these adopted frights, are con- 
signed to the staircase and the lumber-room. In 
like manner his goodly shelves are one by one 
stripped of his favorite old authors, to give place to 
a collection of presentation copies — the flour and 
bran of modern poetry. A presentation copy, reader, 
— if haply you are yet innocent of such favors — is a 
copy of ^ book which does not sell, sent you by the 
author, with his foolish autograph at the beginning 
of it ; for which, if a stranger, he only demands your 
friendship ; if a brother author he expects from you 
a book of yours, which does sell, in return. \Ye can 
speak to experience, having by us a tolerable assort- 
ment of these gift-horses. Not to ride a metaphor to 
death — ^we are willing to acknowledge, that in some 
gifts there is sense. A duplicate out of a friend's 
library (where he has more than one copy of a rare 
author) is intelligible. There are favors, short of the 
pecuniary — a thing not fit to be hinted at among 
gentlemen — ^which confer as much grace upon the ac- 



512 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

ceptor as the offerer; the kind, we confess, which is 
most to our palate, is of those little conciliatory mis- 
sives, which for their vehicle generally choose a ham- 
per — little odd presents of game, fruit, perhaps wine 
— though it is essential to the delicacy of the latter 
that it be home-made. We love to have our friend 
in the country sitting thus at our table by proxy; 
to apprehend his presence (though a hundred miles 
may be between us) by a turkey, whose goodly as- 
pect reflects to us his ' ' plump corpusculum ; " to taste 
him in grouse or woodcock; to feel him gliding dowTi 
in the toast peculiar to the latter; to concorporate 
him in a slice of Canterbury brawn. This is indeed 
to have him within ourselves; to know him inti- 
mately : such participation is methinks unitive, as the 
old theologians phrase it. For these considerations 
we should be sorry if certain restrictive regulations, 
which are thought to bear hard upon the pleasantry 
of this country, were entirely done away with. A 
hare, as the law now stands, makes many friends. 
Caius conciliates Titius (knowing his gout) with a 
leash of partridges. Titius (suspecting his partiality 
for them) passes them to Lucius; who in his turn, 
preferring his friend's relish to his own, makes them 
over to Marcius; till in their ever-widening progress, 
and round of unconscious circum-migration, they dis- 
tribute the seeds of harmony over half a parish. We 
are well disposed to this kind of sensible remem- 
brances; and are the less apt to be taken by those 
little airy tokens — impalpable to the palate — which, 



POPULAR FALLACIES 513 

under the names of rings, lockets, keep-sakes, amuse 
some people's fancy mightily. We could never away 
with these indigestible trifles. They are the very 
kickshaws and foppery of friendship. 

XII 

THAT HOME IS HOME THOUGH IT IS NEVER SO HOMELY 

Homes there are, we are sure, that are no homes; 
the home of the very poor man, and another which 
we shall speak to presently. Crowded places of cheap 
entertainment, and the benches of ale-houses, if they 
could speak, might bear mournful testimony to the 
first. To them the very poor man resorts for an 
image of the home, which he cannot find at home. 
For a starved grate, and a scanty firing, that is not 
enough to keep alive the natural heat in the fingers 
of so many shivering children with their mother, 
he finds in the depths of winter always a blazing 
hearth, and a hob to warm his pittance of beer by. 
Instead of the clamors of a wife, made gaunt by fam- 
ishing, he meets with a cheerful attendance beyond 
the merits of the trifle which he can afford to spend. 
He has companions which his home denies him, for 
the very poor man has no visitors. He can look into 
the goings on of the world, and speak a little to 
politics. At home there are no politics stirring, but 
the domestic. All interests, real or imaginary, all 
topics that should expand the mind of man, and 
connect him to a sympathy with general existence, 



514 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

are crushed in the absorbing considerations of food 
to be obtained for the family. Beyond the price of 
bread, news is senseless and impertinent. At home 
there is no larder. Here there is at least a show of 
plenty; and while he cooks his lean scrap of butcher's 
meat before the common bars, or munches his humbler 
cold viands, his relishing bread and cheese with an 
onion, in a comer, where no one reflects upon his 
poverty, he has a sight of the substantial joint provid- 
ing for the landlord and his family. He takes an in- 
terest in the dressing of it; and while he assists in 
removing the trivet from the fire, he feels that there 
is such a thing as beef and cabbage, which he was 
beginning to forget at home. All this while he de- 
serts his wife and children. But what wife, and 
what children? Prosperous men, who object to this 
desertion, image to themselves some clean contented 
family like that which they go home to. But look at 
the countenance of the poor wives who follow and 
persecute their good man to the door of the public 
house, which he is about to enter, when something 
like shame would restrain him, if stronger misery did 
not induce him to pass the threshold. That face, 
ground by want, in which every cheerful, every con- 
versable lineament has been long effaced by misery, — 
is that a face to stay at home with? is it more a 
woman, or a wild cat ? alas ! it is the face of the wife 
of his youth, that once smiled upon him. It can 
smile no longer. What comforts can it share? what 
burthen can it lighten? Oh, 'tis a fine thing to talk 



POPULAR FALLACIES 515 

of the humble meal shared together! But what if 
there be no bread in the cupboard? The innocent 
prattle of his children takes out the sting of a man's 
poverty. But the children of the very poor do not 
prattle. It is none of the least frightful features in 
that condition, that there is no childishness in its 
dwellings. Poor people, said a sensible old nurse to 
us once, do not bring up their children; they drag 
them up. The little careless darling of the wealthier 
nursery, in their hovel is transformed betimes into 
a premature reflecting person. No one has time to 
dandle it, no one thinks it worth while to coax it, to 
soothe it, to toss it up and down, to humor it. There 
is none to kiss away its tears. If it cries, it can only 
be beaten. It has been prettily said that ''a babe is 
fed. with milk and praise. ' ' But the aliment of this 
poor babe was thin, unnourishing ; the return to its 
little baby-tricks, and efforts to engage attention, 
bitter ceaseless objurgation. It never had a toy, or 
knew what a coral meant. It grew up without the 
lullaby of nurses, it was a stranger to the patient 
fondle, the hushing caress, the attracting novelty, 
the costlier plaything, or the cheaper off-hand con- 
trivance to divert the child; the prattled nonsense 
(best sense to it), the wise impertinences, the whole- 
some lies, the apt story interposed, that puts a stop 
to present sufferings, and awakens the passion of 
young wonder. It was never sung to — no one 'ever 
told to it a tale of the nursery. It was dragged 
up, to live or to die as it happened. It had not 



516 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

young dreams. It broke at once into the iron reali- 
ties of life. A child exists not for the very poor as 
any object of dalliance; it is only another mouth to 
be fed, a pair of little hands to be betimes inured 
to labor. It is the rival, till it can be the co-operator, 
for food with the parent. It is never his mirth, his 
diversion, his solace ; it never makes him young again, 
with recalling his young times. The children of the 
very poor have no young times. It makes the very 
heart to bleed to overhear the casual street-talk be- 
tween a poor woman and her little girl, a woman 
of the better sort of poor, in a condition rather 
above the squalid beings which we have been contem- 
plating. It is not of toys, of nursery books, of sum- 
mer holidays (fitting that age) ; of the promised 
sight, or play ; of praised sufficiency at school. . It 
is of mangling and clear-starching, of the price of 
coals, or of potatoes. The questions of the child, 
that should be the very outpourings of curiosity in 
idleness, are marked with forecast and melancholy 
providence. It has come to be a woman, — before it 
was a child. It has learned to go to market; it 
chaffers, it haggles, it envies, it murmurs ; it is know- 
ing, acute, sharpened ; it never prattles. Had we 
not reason to say, that the home of the very poor is 
no home? 

There is yet another home, which we are constrained 
to deny to be one. It has a larder, which the home 
of the poor man wants; its fireside conveniences, of 
which the poor dream not. But with all this, it is 



POPULAR FALLACIES 517 

no home. It is — the house of the man that is infested 
with many visitors. May we be branded for the 
veriest churl, if we deny our heart to the many noble- 
heated friends that at times exchange their dwelling 
for our poor roof ! It is not of guests that we com- 
plain, but of endless, purposeless visitants ; droppers 
in, as they are called. We sometimes wonder from 
what sky they fall. It is the very error of the po- 
sition of our lodgings; its horoscopy was ill calcu- 
lated, being just situate in a medium — a plaguy sub- 
urban midspace — fitted to catch idlers from town or 
country. We are older than we were, and age is eas- 
ily put out of its way. We have fewer sands in our 
glass to reckon upon, and we cannot brook to see 
them drop in endlessly succeeding impertinences. 
At our time of life, to be alone sometimes is as need- 
ful as sleep. It is the refreshing sleep of the day. 
The growing infirmities of age manifest themselves 
in nothing more strongly, than in an inveterate dis- 
like of interruption. The thing which we are doing, 
we wish to be permitted to do. We have neither 
much knowledge nor devices; but there are fewer in 
the place to which we hasten. We are not willingly 
put out of our way, even at a game of nine-pins. 
While youth was, we had vast reversions in time 
future; we are reduced to a present pittance, and 
obliged to economize in that article. We bleed away 
our moments now as hardly as our ducats. We can- 
not bear to have our thin wardrobe eaten and fretted 
into by moths. We are willing to barter our good 



518 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

time with a friend, who gives us in exchange his own. 
Herein is the distinction between the genuine guest 
and the visitant. This latter takes your good time, 
and gives you his bad in exchange. The guest is 
domestic to you as your good cat, or household bird; 
the visitant is your fly, that flaps in at your window, 
and out again, leaving nothing but a sense of disturb- 
ance, and victuals spoiled. The inferior functions 
of life begin to move heavily. We cannot concoct 
our food with interruptions. Our chief meal, to be 
nutritive, must be solitary. With difficulty we can 
eat before a guest; and never understood what the 
relish of public feasting meant. Meats have no 
sapor, nor digestion fair play, in a crowd. The unex- 
pected coming in of a visitant stops the machine. 
There is a punctual generation who time their calls 
to the precise commencement of your dining-hour — 
not to eat — but to see you eat. Our knife and fork 
drop instinctively, and we feel that we have swal- 
lowed our latest morsel. Others again show their 
genius, as we have said, in knocking the moment you 
have just sat down to a book. They have a peculiar 
compassionate sneer, with which they ''hope that they 
do not interrupt your studies.'* Though they flutter 
off the next moment, to carry their impertinences to 
the nearest student that they call their friend, the 
tone of the book is spoiled; we shut the leaves, and, 
with Dante's lovers,^ read no more that day. It were 
w^ell if the effect of intrusion were simply co-exten- 
sive with its presence ; but it mars all the good hours 



POPULAR FALLACIES 519 

afterwards. These scratches in appearance leave an 
orifice that closes not hastily. "It is a prostitution 
of the bravery of friendship, ' ' says worthy Bishop 
Taylor, "to spend it upon impertinent people, who 
are, it may be, loads to their families, but can never 
ease my loads. ' ' This is the secret of their gaddings, 
their visits, and morning calls. They too have homes, 
which are — no homes. 



XIII 

THAT YOU MUST LOVE ME AND LOVE MY DOG 

"Good sir, or madam, as it may be — we most will- 
ingly embraced the offer of your friendship. We 
long have known your excellent qualities. We have 
wished to have you nearer to us; to hold you within 
the very innermost fold of our heart. We can have 
no reserve towards a person of your open and noble 
nature. The frankness of your humor suits us exactly. 
We have been long looking for such a friend. Quick 
— let us disburthen our troubles into each other's 
bosom — let us make our single joys shine by reduplica- 
tion — But yap, yap, yap! what is this confounded 
cur? he has fastened his tooth, which is none of the 
bluntest, just in the fleshy part of my leg." 

"It is my dog, sir. You must love him for my 
sake. Here, Test— Test— Test ! " 

"But he has bitten me." 

"Ay, that he is apt to do, till you are better ac- 



520 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

quainted with him. I have had him three years. 
He never bites me." 

Yap, yap, yap! — ''He is at it again." 

''Oh, sir, you must not kick him. He does not 
like to be kicked. I expect my dog to be treated with 
all the respect due to myself." 

"But do you always take him out with you, when 
you go a friendship-hunting?" 

"Invariably. 'Tis the sweetest, prettiest, best-con- 
ditioned animal. I call him my test — the touch- 
stone by which I try a friend. No one can properly 
be said to love me, who does not love him." 

"Excuse us, dear sir — or madam aforesaid — if 
upon further consideration we are obliged to decline 
the otherwise invaluable offer of your friendship. 
"We do not like dogs." 

"Mighty well, sir — you know the conditions — ^you 
may have worse offers. Come along, Test." 

The above dialogue is not so imaginary, but that 
in the intercourse of life, we have had frequent occa- 
sions of breaking off an agreeable intimacy by reason 
of these canine appendages. They do not always 
come in the shape of dogs; they sometimes wear the 
more plausible and human character of kinsfolk, 
near acquaintances, my friend 's friend, his partner, 
his wife, or his children. We could never yet form a 
friendship — not to speak of more delicate correspond- 
ences — however much to our taste, without the in- 
tervention of some third anomaly, some impertinent 
clog affixed to the relation — the understood dog in 



POPULAR FALLACIES • 521 

the proverb. The good things of life are not to be 
had singly, but come to ns with a mixture ; like a 
schoolboy's holiday, with a task affixed to the tail of 
it. What a delightful companion is * * *^ if 
he did not always bring his tall cousin with him ! 
He seems to grow with him ; like some of those double 
births which we remember to have read of with such 
wonder and delight in the old "Athenian Oracle," 
where Swift commenced author by writing Pindaric 
Odes ^ (what a beginning for him!) upon Sir William 
Temple. There is the picture of the brother, with 
the little brother peeping out at his shoulder; a spe- 
cies of fraternity, which we have no name of kin 
close enough to comprehend. When * * * comes, 
poking in his head and shoulder into your room, as 
if to feel his entry, you think, surely you have now 
got him to yourself — what a three-hours' chat we 
shall have ! — but ever in the haunch of him, and 
before his diffident body is well disclosed in your 
apartment, appears the haunting shadow of the 
cousin, over-peering his modest kinsman, and sure to 
overlay the expected good talk with his insufferable 
procerity of stature, and uncorresponding dwarfish- 
ness of observation. Misfortunes seldom come alone. 
'Tis hard when a blessing comes accompanied. Can- 
not we like Sempronia, without sitting down to chess 
with her eternal brother? or know Sulpicia, without 
knov, ing all the round of her card-playing relations ? 
must my friend 's brethren of necessity be mine also ? 
must we be hand and glove with Dick Selby the par- 



522 • THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

son, or Jack Selby the calico-printer, because W. S., 
who is neither, but a ripe wit and a critic, has the mis- 
fortune to claim a common parentage with them? 
Let him lay down his brothers ; and 'tis odds but we 
will cast him in a pair of ours (we have a superflux) 
to balance the concession. Let F. H. lay down his 
garrulous uncle; and Honorius dismiss his vapid 
wife, and superfluous establishment of six boys: 
things between boy and manhood — too ripe for play, 
too raw for conversation — that come in, impudently 
staring their father's old friend out of countenance; 
and will neither aid, nor let alone, the conference: 
that we may once more meet upon equal terms, as 
we were wont to do in the disengaged state of bache- 
lorhood. 

It is well if your friend, or mistress, be content 
with these canicular probations. Few young ladies 
but in this sense keep a dog. But when Rutilia 
hounds at you her tiger aunt; or Ruspina expects 
you to cherish and fondle her viper sister, whom she 
has preposterously taken into her bosom, to try sting- 
ing conclusions upon your constancy; they must not 
complain if the house be rather thin of suitors. 
Scylla ^ must have broken off many excellent matches 
in her time, if she insisted upon all, that loved her, 
loving her iiogs also. 

An excellent story to this moral is told of Merry,^ 
of Delia Cruscan memory. In tender youth, he loved 
and courted a modest appanage to the Opera, in truth 
a dancer, who had won him by the artless contrast 



POPULAR FALLACIES 523 

between her manners and situation. Slie seemed to 
him a native violet, that had been transplanted by 
some rude accident into that exotic and artificial hot- 
bed. Nor, in truth, was she less genuine and sincere 
than she appeared to him. He wooed and won this 
flower. Only for appearance's sake, and for due 
honor to the bride's relations, she craved that she 
might have the attendance of her friends and kindred 
at the approaching solemnity. The request was too 
amiable not to be conceded : and in this solicitude for 
conciliating the good-will of mere relations, he found 
a presage of her superior attentions to himself, when 
the golden shaft should have *' killed the flock of all 
affections else. ' ' The morning came : and at the Star 
and Garter, Richmond — the place appointed for the 
breakfasting — accompanied with one English friend, 
he impatiently awaited what reinforcements the bride 
should bring to grace the ceremony. A rich muster 
she had made. They came in six coaches — ^the whole 
corps du ballet — French, Italian, men and women. 
Monsieur De B., the famous piroiietter of the day, 
led his fair spouse, but craggy, from the banks of 
the Seine. The Prima Donna had sent her excuse. 
But the first and second Buffa were there ; and Sig- 
nor Sc — , and Signora Ch — , and Madame V — , with 
a countless cavalcade besides of chorusers, figurantes, 
at the sight of whom Merry afterwards declared, that 
''then "for the first time it struck him seriously that 
he was about to marry — a dancer." But there was 
no help for it. Besides, it was her day; these were, 



524 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

in fact, her friends and kinsfolk. The assemblage, 
though whimsical, was all very natural. But when 
the bride — handing out of the last coach a still more 
extraordinary figure than the rest presented to him 
as her father — ^the gentleman that was to give her 
away — ^no less a person than Signor Delpini himself 
— ^with a sort of pride, as much as to say. See what 
I have brought to do us honor! — the thought of so 
extraordinary a paternity quite overcame him ; and 
slipping away under some pretense from the bride 
and her motley adherents, poor Merry took horse 
from the back yard to the nearest sea-coast, from 
which, shipping himself to America, he shortly after 
consoled himself with a more congenial match in the 
person of Miss Brunton; relieved from his intended 
clown father, and a bevy of painted Buffas for bride- 
maids. 

XIV 

THAT WE SHOULD RISE WITH THE LARK 

At what precise minute that little airy musician 
doffs his night gear, and prepares to tune up his un- 
seasonable matins, we are not naturalists enough to 
determine. But for a mere human gentleman — ^that 
has no orchestra business to call him from his warm 
bed to such preposterous exercises — we take ten, or 
half after ten (eleven, of course, during this Christ- 
mas solstice), to be the very earliest hour, at which 
he can begin to think of abandoning his pillow. To 
think of it, .we say; for to do it in earnest, requires 



POPULAR FALLACIES 525 

another half -hour's good consideration. Not but 
there are pretty sun-risings, as we are told, and such 
like gawds, abroad in the world, in summer time es- 
pecially, some hours before what we have assigned ; 
which a gentleman may see, as they say, only for 
getting up. But, having been tempted once or twice, 
in earlier life, to assist at those ceremonies, we confess 
our curiosity abated. We are no longer ambitious of 
being the sun's courtiers, to attend at his morning 
levees. We hold the good hours of the dawn too sa- 
cred to waste them upon such observances; which 
have in them, besides, something Pagan and Persic.^ 
To say truth, we never anticipated our usual hour, 
or got up with the sun (as 'tis called), to go a jour- 
ney, or upon a foolish whole day's pleasuring, but 
we suffered for it all the long hours after in listless- 
ness and headaches; Nature herself sufficiently de- 
claring her sense of our presumption in aspiring to 
regulate our frail waking courses by the measures of 
that celestial and sleepless traveler. We deny not 
that there is something sprightly and vigorous, at 
the outset especially, in these break-of-day excursions. 
It is flattering to get the start of a lazy world; to 
conquer death by proxy in his image. But the seeds 
of sleep and mortality are in us; and we pay usu- 
ally in strange qualms before night falls, the penalty 
of the unnatural inversion. Therefore, while the 
busy part of mankind are fast huddling on their 
clothes, are already up and about their occupations, 
content to have swallowed their sleep by wholesale; 



526 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

we choose to linger a-bed, and digest our dreams. It 
is the very time to recombine the wandering images, 
which night in a confused mass presented; to snatch 
them from f orgetf ulness ; to shape, and mold them. 
Some people have no good of their dreams. Like 
fast feeders, they gulp them too grossly, to taste 
them curiously. We love to chew the cud of a fore- 
gone vision ; to collect the scattered rays of a brighter 
phantasm, or act over again, with firmer nerves, the 
sadder nocturnal tragedies; to drag into day-light a 
struggling and half -vanishing night-mare ; to handle 
and examine the terrors, or the airy solaces. We 
have too much respect for these spiritual communica- 
tions, to let them go so lightly. We are not so stupid, 
or so careless, as that Imperial forgetter of his dreams, 
that we should need a seer to remind us of the form 
of them. They seem to us to have as much signifi- 
cance as our waking concerns; or rather to import 
us more nearly, as more nearly we approach by 
years to the shadowy world, whither we are hastening. 
We have shaken hands with the world's business; w^e 
have done with it; we have discharged ourself of it. 
Why should we get up? we have neither suit to so- 
licit, nor affairs to manage. The drama has shut in 
upon us at the fourth act. We have nothing here to 
expect, but in a short time a sick bed, and a dismissal. 
We delight to anticipate death by such shadows as 
night affords. We are already half acquainted with 
ghosts. We were never much in the world. Disap- 
pointment early struck a dark veil between us and 



POPULAR FALLACIES 527 

its dazzling illusions. Our spirits showed gray be- 
fore our hairs. The mighty changes of the world 
already appear as but the vain stuff out of which 
dramas are composed. We have asked no more of 
life than what the mimic images in play-houses pre- 
sent us with. Even those types have waxed fainter. 
Our clock appears to have struck. We are super- 
annuated. In this dearth of mundane satisfaction, 
we contract politic alliances with shadows. It is 
good to have friends at court. The abstracted media 
of dreams seem no ill introduction to that spiritual 
presence, upon which, in no long time, we expect to 
be thrown. We are trying to know a little of the 
usages of that colony; to learn the language, and the 
faces we shall meet with there, that we may be the 
less awkward at our first coming among them. We 
willingly call a phantom our fellow, as knowing we 
shall soon be of their dark companionship. There- 
fore, we cherish dreams. We try to spell in them the 
alphabet of the invisible world; and think we know 
already, how it shall be with us. Those uncouth 
shapes, which, while we clung to flesh and blood, af- 
frighted us, have become familiar. We feel attenu- 
ated into their meager essences, and have given the 
hand of half-way approach to incorporeal being. We 
once thought life to be something; but it has unac- 
countably fallen from us before its time. Therefore 
we choose to dally with visions. The sun has no 
purposes of ours to light us to. Why should we get 
up? 



528 TEE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

XV 

THAT WE SHOULD LIE DOWN WITH THE LAMB 

We could never quite understand the philosophy of 
this arrangement, or the wisdom of our ancestors 
in sending us for instruction to these woolly bedfel- 
lows. A sheep, when it is dark, has nothing to do 
but to shut his silly eyes, and sleep if he can. Man 
found out long sixes. — Hail, candle-light! without 
disparagement to sun or moon, the kindliest luminary 
of the three — ^if we may not rather style thee their 
radiant deputy, mild viceroy of the moon! — ^We love 
to read, talk, sit silent, eat, drink, sleep, by candle- 
light. They are everybody's sun and moon. This is 
our peculiar and household planet. Wanting it, what 
savage unsocial nights must our ancestors have spent, 
wintering in caves and unillumined fastnesses ! They 
must have lain about and grumbled at one another 
in the dark. What repartees could have passed, when 
you must have felt about for a smile, and handled 
a neighbor's cheek to be sure that he understood it? 
This accounts for the seriousness of the elder poetry. 
It has a somber cast (try Hesiod or Ossian),^ derived 
from the tradition of those unlantern'd nights. 
Jokes came in with candles. We wonder how they 
saw to pick up a pin, if they had any. How did they 
sup? what a melange of chance carving they must 
have made of it ! — here one had got the leg of a goat, 
when he wanted a horse's shoulder — there another 



POPULAR FALLACIES 529 

had dipped his scooped palm in a kid-skin of wild 
honey, when he meditated right mare's milk. There 
is neither good eating nor drinking in fresco. Who, 
even in these civilized times, has never experienced 
this, when at some economic table he has commenced 
dining after dusk, and waited for the flavor till the 
lights came? The senses absolutely give and take re- 
ciprocally. Can you tell pork from veal in the dark? 
or distinguish Sherris from pure Malaga? Take 
away the candle from the smoking man ; by the glim- 
mering of the left ashes, he knows that he is still 
smoking, but he knows it only by an inference; till 
the restored light, coming in aid of the olfactories, 
reveals to both senses the full aroma. Then how he 
redoubles his puffs ! how he burnishes ! — There is ab- 
solutely no such thing as reading, but by a candle. 
We have tried the affectation of a book at noon-day in 
gardens, and in sultry arbors ; but it was labor thrown 
away. Those gay motes in the beam come about you, 
hovering and teasing, like many coquettes, that will 
have you all to their self, and are jealous of your 
abstractions. By the midnight taper, the writer di- 
gests his meditations. By the same light, we must 
approach to their perusal, if we would catch the 
flame, the odor. It is a mockery, all that is reported 
of the influential Phoebus.^ No true poem ever owed 
its birth to the sun's light. They are abstracted 
works — 

" Things that were born, when none but the still night, 
And his dumb candle, saw his pinching throes." 



530 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

Marry, daylight — daylight might furnish the images, 
the crude material ; but for the fine shapings, the true 
turning and filing (as mine author hath it), they 
must be content to hold their inspiration of the can- 
dle. The mild internal light, that reveals them, like 
fires on the domestic hearth, goes out in the sun-shine. 
Night and silence call out the starry fancies. Mil- 
ton's Morning Hymn in Paradise, we would hold a 
good wager, was penned at midnight; and Taylor's 
rich description of a sun-rise smells decidedly of the 
taper. Even ourselves, in these our humbler lucubra- 
tions, tune our best measured cadences (Prose has 
her cadences) not unfrequently to the charm of the 
drowsier watchman, "blessing the doors;" or the 
wild sweeps of wind at midnight. Even now a loftier 
speculation than we have yet attempted, courts our 
endeavors. We would indite something about the 
Solar System. — Betty, tring the candles. 

XYI 

THAT A SULKY TEMPER IS A MISFORTUNE 

We grant that it is, and a very serious one — ^to a 
man's friends, and to all that have to do with him; 
but whether the condition of the man himself is so 
much to be deplored may admit of a question. We 
can speak a little to it, being ourself but lately re- 
covered — we whisper it in confidence, reader — out of 
a long and desperate fit of the sullen. Was the cure 
a blessing? The conviction which wrought it, came 



^ POPULAR FALLACIES 531 

too clearly to leave a scruple of the fanciful injuries 
— for they were mere fancies — which had provoked 
the humor. But the humor itself was too self -pleas- 
ing, while it lasted — we know how bare we lay our- 
self in the confession — to be abandoned all at once 
with the grounds of it. "We still brood over wrongs 
which we know to have been imaginary; and for 

our old acquaintance, N , whom we find to be a 

truer friend than we took him for, we substitute some 
phantom — a Caius or Titius — as like him as we dare 
to form it, to wreak our yet unsatisfied resentments 
on. It is mortifying to fall at once from the pinnacle 
of neglect; to forego the idea of having been ill-used 
and contumaciously treated by an old friend. The 
first thing to aggrandize a man in his own conceit, 
is to conceive of himself as neglected. There let him 
fix if he can. To undeceive him is to deprive him 
of the most tickling morsel within the range of self- 
complacency. No flattery can come near it. Happy 
is he who suspects his friend of an injustice ; but su- 
premely blest, who thinks all his friends in a con- 
spiracy to depress and undervalue him. There is a 
pleasure (we sing not to the profane) far beyond 
the reach of all that the world counts joy — a deep, 
enduring satisfaction in the depths, where the super- 
ficial seek it not, of discontent. Were we to recite 
one half of this mystery, — which we were let into by 
our late dissatisfaction, all the world would be in 
love with disrespect ; we should wear a slight for a 
bracelet, and neglects and contumacies would be the 



532 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

only matter for courtship. Unlike to that myste- 
rious book in the Apocalypse/ the study of this mys- 
tery is unpalatable only in the commencement. The 
first sting of a suspicion is grievous; but wait — out 
of that wound, which to flesh and blood seemed so 
difficult, there is balm and honey to be extracted. 
Your friend passed you on such or such a day — ^hav- 
ing in his company one that you conceived worse than 
ambiguously disposed towards you, — passed you in 
the street without notice. To be sure he is something 
short-sighted; and it was in your power to have ac- 
costed hijn. But facts and sane inferences are trifles 
to a true adept in the science of dissatisfaction. He 

must have seen you; and S , who was with him, 

must have been the cause of the contempt. It galls 
you, and well it may. But have patience. Go home, 
and make the worst of it, and you are a made man 
from this time. Shut yourself up, and — rejecting, as 
an enemy to your peace, every whispering suggestion 
that but insinuates there may be a mistake — reflect 
seriously upon the many lesser instances which you 
had begun to perceive, in proof of your friend's dis- 
affection towards you. None of them singly was 
much to the purpose, but the aggregate weight is pos- 
itive; and you have this last affront to clench them. 
Thus far the process is anything but agreeable. 
But now to your relief comes in the comparative fac- 
ulty. You conjure up all the kind feelings you have 
had for your friend; what you have been to him, 
and what you would have been to him, if he would 



POPULAR FALLACIES SSS 

have suffered you; how you defended him in this or 
that place; and his good name — his literary reputa- 
tion, and so forth, was always dearer to you than 
your own I Your heart, spite of itself, yearns to- 
wards him. You could weep tears of blood but for a 
restraining pride. How say you ? do you not yet begin 
to apprehend a comfort ? some allay of sweetness in the 
bitter waters? Stop not here, nor penuriously cheat 
yourself of your reversions. — ^You are on vantage 
ground. Enlarge your speculations, and take in the 
rest of your friends, as a spark kindles more sparks. 
Was there one among them, who has not to you 
proved hollow, false, slippery as water? Begin to 
think that the relation itself is inconsistent with mor- 
tality. That the very idea of friendship, with its 
component parts, as honor, fidelity, steadiness, exists 
but in your single bosom. Image yourself to your- 
self, as the only possible friend in a world incapable 
of that communion. Now the gloom thickens. The 
little star of self-love twinkles, that is to encourage 
you through deeper glooms than this. You are not 
yet at the half point of your elevation. You are not 
yet, believe me, half sulky enough. Adverting to the 
world in general (as these circles in the mind will 
spread to infinity), reflect with what strange injustice 
you have been treated in quarters where (setting 
gratitude and the expectation of friendly returns 
aside as chimeras) you pretended no claim beyond 
justice, the naked due of all men. Think the very 
idea of right and fit fled from the earth, or your 



534 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA 

breast the solitary receptacle of it, till you have 
swelled yourself into at least one hemisphere, the 
other being the vast Arabia Stony of your friends 
and the world aforesaid. To grow bigger every mo- 
ment in your own conceit, and the world to lessen ; 
to deify yourself at the expense of your species; to 
judge the world — this is the acme and supreme point 
of your mystery — these are the true Pleasures of 
SuLKiNESS. We profess no more of this grand secret 
than what ourself experimented on one rainy after- 
noon in the last week, sulking in our study. We 
had proceeded to the penultimate point, at which the 
true adept seldom stops, where the consideration of 
benefit forgot is about to merge in the meditation of 
general injustice — when a knock at the door was fol- 
lowed by the entrance of the very friend, whose not 
seeing of us in the morning (for we will now confess 
the case our own), an accidental 'oversight, had given 
rise to so much agreeable generalization. To mortify 
us still more, and take down the whole flattering super- 
structure which pride had piled upon neglect, he had 

brought in his hand the identical S , in whose 

favor we had suspected him of the contumacy. As- 
severations were needless, where the frank manner of 
them both was convictive of the injurious nature of 
the suspicion. We fancied that they perceived our 
embarrassment; but were too proud, or something 
else, to confess to the secret of it. We had been but 
too lately in the condition of the noble patient in 
Arffos : — 



POPULAR FALLACIES 535 

Qui se credebat miros audire tragoedos, 

In vacuo fsetus sessor plausorque theatro — i 

and could have exclaimed with equal reason against 
the friendly hands that cured as — 

Pol, me oceidistis^ amici, 
Non servastis, ait; cui sic extorta voluptas, 
Et demptus per vim mentis gratissimus error.2 



THE END 



NOTES 
ESSAYS OF ELIA 

27, 1. Elia. When Lamb wrote his first article for tlie 
London Magazine, he, wishing to remain anonymous, signed 
it Elia, — a nom de plume which he afterwards decided to 
retain. It was the name of an obscure Italian who was a 
'fellow-clerk of the author's at the time he was employed in 
the South-Sea House. 

THE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE 

2. This essay appeared in the London Magazine, in August, 
1820, under the title Recollections of the South-8ea House. 
Lamb's connection with the house is described on page 9, In- 
troduction. 

3. Bank. Bank of England. 

4. Flower Pot. An inn in London from which the coach 
for the north started. 

5. Dalston or Shacklewell. Northern parts of London oc- 
cupied by people in humble circumstances. 

6. Balclutha's. In Macpherson's poem Carthon, a town 
belonging to the Britons, taken and destroyed by the father 
of the hero Fingal. Macpherson ascribed the poem to Ossian, 
claiming he had but translated it. Lamb was among those 
deceived, for in a foot-note he quotes from the Greek writer: 
" I passed by the walls of Balclutha, and they were desolate." 

28, 1. aueen Anne (1664-1714). The last sovereign of the 
house of Stuart. She governed England from 1702 until her 
death. 

2. Two first monarchs of the Brunswick dynasty. George 
I (1660-1727), who ruled England from 1714 to 1727, and 
George II (1683-1760), who followecl him, ruling from 1727 
to 1760. 

3. " Unsunned heap." An expression from Milton. 
You may as well spread out the unsunned heaps 

Of miser's treasure. Comus, 11. 398-399. 

537 



538 NOTES 



4. Mammon. The god of avarice and riches among the 
ancient Syrians, a people dwelling in Palestine. 

" Ye cannot serve God and Mammon." 

Matthew VI, 24. 

5. That famous Bubble. The South-Sea Bubble, a gigantic 
financial scheme, which failed in 1720. (See Green's IShort 
History of the English People, Chap. IX, Sec. X.) 

29, 1. Titan. A giant of great strength, who, with his as- 
sociates, Avaged war against the gods, Saturn and Jupiter. 
(See classical dictionary.) 

2. Vaux's superhuman plot. The " Gunpowder Plot," orig- 
inated by Guido Vaux or Guy Fawkes in 1605 to destroy the 
Houses of Parliament. 

30, 1. Herculaneum. One of the cities destroyed by the 
eruption of Vesuvius in 79 A. D. Excavations have revealed 
many interesting things, especially statues and manuscripts. 

31, 1. Evans. William Evans, a clerk in the South-Sea 
House. Lamb throughout his essays nearly or quite always 
uses real rather than fictitious names. 

2. Cambro-Briton. Welchman. Cambria was the Latin 
name for Wales. 

3. Maccaronies. An eighteenth century term for fops. 
The reader will recall its use in the song, Yankee Doodle. 

32, 1. Pennant. Thomas Pennant (1726-1798), an archaeol- 
ogist who published an Account of London in 1790. 

2. Rosamond's pond. A small lake in St. James Park 
which was drained in 1770. 

3. Mulberry Gardens. Public gardens near Buckingham 
Palace, so called because many mulberry trees grew there. 

4. Cheap. Cheapside, a street in London well known to 
history. 

5. Hogarth has immortalized in his picture of Noon. Wil- 
liam Hogarth (1697-1764), an English artist much admired 
by Lamb. Among his paintings is one entitled Noon, the sub- 
ject being a French Huguenot chapel in London. 

6. Louis the Fourteenth and his dragoons. Louis the 
Fourteenth (1643-1715), king of France, by his harsh meas- 
ures, drove fifty thousand Huguenots into exile. Many of 
them sought refuge in England, others in America. 

7. Obscurities of Hog Lane, and the vicinity of the Seven 
Dials. Parts of London which were once largely occupied by 
foreigners and which were centers of extreme poverty. 

8. Thomas Tame. Another clerk in the South-Sea House. 



NOTES 539 

. 9. Westminster Hall. A building adjoining the Houses of 
Parliament, built by William II. 

33, 1. His mind was in its original state of white paper. 
Taken from the works of John Locke. " Let us then suppose 
the mind to be, as we may say, white paper, void of all char- 
acters, without any ideas." 

An Essay Concerning Human Understanding , Bk. II, Chap. I. 

2. Unfortunate house of Derwentwater. The Earl of Der- 
Aventwater (James Radcliffe, 1689-1716), was executed on a 
charge of treason for upholding the cause of the Pretender, 
James Francis Edward. 

3. Decus et solamen. Honor and consolation. (See Vir- 
gil's ^neid, Bk. X, 1. 858.) 

4. John Tipp. Still another clerk in the South-Sea House. 
Lamb's brother succeeded him as deputy accountant. 

34, 1. Orphean lyre. Taken from Milton. 

With other notes than to the Orphean lyre 
I sang of Chaos and eternal Night. 

Paradise Lost, Bk. Ill, 11. 17-18. 

Orpheus was a celebrated musician in Greek mythology. 
(See classical dictionary.) 

2. Lord Midas. A legendary king of Phrygia who, acting 
as judge in a musical contest in which Apollo and Pan took 
part, awarded the prize to Pan, thus betraying his dense igno- 
rance. 

35, 1. Fortinbras. Prince of Norway, a character in 
Shakespeare's Hamlet. 

36, 1. Greatly find quarrel in a straw. A quotation from 
Hamlet. 

" Pightly to be great 
Is not to stir without great argument. 
But greatly to find quarrel in a strata 
When honor's at the stake." 

Hamlet, Act IV, Sc. IV, 11. 55-56. 

2. The dusty dead. Adapted from Shakespeare. 

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
The way to dusty death. 

Macbeth, Act V, Sc. V, 11. 21-22. 

3. Henry Man. Still another clerk in the South- Sea House. 
He was the author of a number of humorous papers on va- 
rious subjects. 



540 NOTES 

4. Barbican. A street in London upon which Milton live.d 
for a time. 

5. " New-born gauds." A quotation from Shakespeare. 

One toucli of nature makes the whole world kin, 
That all with one consent praise neic-born gauds. 

Troilus and Cressida, Act III, Sc. Ill, 11. 174-175. 

6. Public Ledgers, and in Chronicles. Two London news- 
papers of the eighteenth century. 

7. Chatham. William Pitt (1708-1778), a prominent 
statesman who upheld the American colonies in their con- 
troversies with the mother country. Shelburne. William 
Petty (1737-1805), prime minister in 1783 when England 
recognized the independence of America. Rockingham. 
Charles Wentworth (1730-1782), prime minister before Shel- 
burne. Howe. Sir William Howe (1729-1814), a prominent 
English general in the Revolutionary War. Burgoyne. " John 
Burgoyne (1722-1792), another British general in the same 
war; surrendered to Gates at Saratoga in 1777. Clinton. 
Sir Henry Clinton (1738-1795), still another British general 
in the same war. 

8. Keppel. Augustus Keppel (1725-1786), an English ad- 
miral. Wilkes. John Wilkes (1727-1797), a celebrated Eng- 
lish politician who bitterly opposed the American war. 
Sawbridge. John Sawbridge (1732-1795), Lord Mayor of 
London from 1775 until his death. Bull. William Bull 
(1738-1814), Independent minister, close friend of the poet 
Cowper. Dunning. John Dunning (1731-1783), Lord Ash- 
burton, author of a bill in the House of Commons to lessen 
the power of the Crown. Pratt. Charles Pratt (1713-1794), 
afterwards Earl of Camden. Richmond. Charles Lennox 

(1735-1806), a suj)porter of the American colonies. 

37, 1. Plumer. Hichard Plumer, owner of the house de- 
scribed in Blakesmoor in H — shire. He enTployed Lamb's 
grandmother, Mary Field, as house-keeper for more than fifty 
years. 

2. Fine old whig still living. William Plumer, a poli- 
tician of some repute. 

3. George the Second's days. See note 28, 2. 

4. Johnson's "Life of Cave." Samuel Johnson (1709- 
1784), a celebrated English essayist, poet, and lexicographer. 
He was at one time in the employ of Edward Cave, who 
drew upon himself the censure of Parliament for publishing 



NOTES 541 

speeches made by members of that body which were incor- 
rectly reported. 

5. Pastoral M — . T. Maynard, still another clerk in the 
South-Sea House. Lamb says elsewhere that he hanged him- 
self. 

6. Arcadian melodies. In Greek mythology, Arcadia was 
the residence of Pan, god of shepherds. (See note 34, 2.) 
It was a place Avhere happiness reigned without interruption. 

7. Worthy of Arden, thou didst chant that song sung by 
Amiens to the banished Duke. See Shakespeare's As You 
Like it, Act II, Sc. VII. 

38, 1. Newton. Sir Isaac Newton (1642-1727), a great 
English philosopher and mathematician who discovered the 
law of gravitation. 

2. Like Henry Pimpernel, and old John Naps of Greece. 
Names mentioned in the Introduction to Shakespeare's Taming 
of the Shreiu. 

OXFORD IN THE VACATION 

38, 3. The London Magazine, October, 1820. 

4. Quis sculpsit. Literally, who has done the chiseling; 
freely, the name of the artist. 

39, 1. A Vivares, or a Woollet. Francois Vivares (1709- 
1780), a celebrated landscape painter. He was a Frenchman 
by birth, but spent most of his life in London. William 
Woollet (1735-1785), a noted English landscape engraver. 

40, 1. Red-letter days. It has long been the custom to 
mark the important church feast-days in red on the calendar; 
hence the expression. 

2. Andrew and John, men famous in old times. Critics 
have not succeeded in placing this quotation. 

3. At school at Christ's. See page 9, Introduction. 

4. Basket Prayer-Book. A prayer-book published in 1749 
by John Baskett (Note Lamb's spelling), printer to King 
George 11. 

5. Peter in his uneasy posture. Peter is reputed to have 
been crucified Avith his head downward. June 29 is the day 
sacred to him. 

6. Bartlemy in the troublesome act of flaying. Saint 
Bartholomew, according to tradition, was flayed alive. August 
24 is the day sacred to him. 

7. Marsyas by Spagnoletti. A painting by the Spanish 
artist, Jose Ribera (1588-1656), commonly known as Spag- 



542 NOTES 

noletti, of Apollo flaying Marsyas, a satyr, who had challenged 
him to a musical contest. 

8. Better Jude. Saint Jude the apostle, as distinguished 
from Judas Iscariot. 

41, 1. " Far off their coming shone." Adapted from Mil- 
ton. 

Attended with ten thousand thousand Saints 
He onward came; far off his coming shone. 

Paradise Lost, Bk. VI, 1. 768. 

2. Epiphany. A church festival celebrated on the sixth 
of January, the twelfth day after Christmas, in commemora- 
tion of the appearance of the Saviour to the wise men of the 
East. 

3. Selden, nor Arch-bishop TJsher. John Selden (1584- 
1654), an English jurist and antiquary who wrote several 
legal and theological treatises of great merit. James TJsher 
(1580-1656), an arch-bishop in the Church of England who 

wrote a celebrated work on biblical chronology. 

4. Bodley. Sir Thomas Bodley (1545-1613), founded the 
great Bodleian Library of Oxford University near which 
Lamb lived at the time he wrote this essay. 

5. Ad eundem. To the same standing. 

42, 1. Trees of Christ's, the groves of Magdalen. Christ 
Church and St. Mary Magdalen College are two of the most 
noted colleges of Oxford University. 

2. Cooked for Chaucer. Geoffrey Chaucer (1340?-1400) , 
the " father " of English poetry. There is no record that 
shows he attended school at Oxford. 

43, 1. Half Januses. Janus, a Latin god, represented with 
two faces looking in opposite directions. (See classical dic- 
tionary. ) 

2. Oxenford. An obsolete name for Oxford. 

3. Varise lectiones. Different readings. 

4. Herculanean raker. See note 30, 1, The South-Sea 
House. 

44, 1. Porson and to G. D — . Richard Porson (1759-1808), 
a noted Greek scholar and professor at Oxford. G. D — . 
George Dyer (1775-1841), a friend of Lamb who wrote a 
History of the University and Colleges of Cambridge and a 
Life of Robert Robinson. 

2. Oriel. One of the colleges at Oxford. 

3. Scapula. A writer of the sixteenth century who pub- 
lished a Greek lexicon. 



NOTES 543 

4. Clifford's Inn. An inn of chancery in London; orig- 
inally a law school. 

45, 1. In manu. In hand. 

2. Temple. See note 175, 1, The Old Benchers of the Inner 
Temple. 

3. Our friend M's. Basil Montague, who edited Lord 
Bacon's works. He was a close friend of Lamb. 

46, 1. Queen Lar. In Roman mythology, the Lars or Lares 
were the guardian spirits of homes. ( See classical dictionary. ) 

2. Pretty A. S. Anne Skepper, daughter to Mrs. Mon- 
tague, afterwards married to B. W. Procter. (Lamb's note.) 

3. Another Sosia. Sosia, a slave in Ainphitryon, by Plau- 
tus ( ?-184 B. C. ), a Roman dramatist. 

4. Mount Tabor — or Parnassus. Mount Tabor, the scene 
of the Transfiguration. Parnassus. In classical mythology, 
the home of the Muses. 

5. Plato — or, with Harrington. Plato (429-347 B. C), 
the famous Greek philosopher. James Harrington (1611- 
1677), author of the Commonwealth of Oceana. 

47, 1. Cam and the Isis. Rivers that flow near Oxford 
and Cambridge. 

2. Waters of Damascus. Are not Abana and Pharpar, 
rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel? 

II Kings V, 12. 

3. Delectable Mountains. The mountains from which the 
sojourners see the Celestial City, as described in Bunyan's 
Pilgrim's Progress, Part I. 

4. Interpreter at the House Beautiful. The owner of a 
house beyond the Wicket Gate in Pilgrim's Progress. 

CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE AND THIRTY YEARS AGO 
47, 5. The London Magazine, November, 1820. In June, 
1813, an essay by Lamb, entitled Recollections of Christ's Hos- 
pital, appeared in the Gentleman's Magazine, and later was 
included in the collection of his works made in 1818. It was 
a serious attempt to show to the public the value and dignity 
of the school the author had attended. The later paper, as 
the reader will discover, deals rather with the customs and 
practices of the institution. 

6. Mr. Lamb's " Works." Lamb's works were published in 
1818 in two small volumes, w^hich contained poems, a tragedy, 
the tale of Rosamund Gray, and various essays of which 
Recollections of Christ's Hospital was one. (See note 47, 5, 
above. ) 



544 NOTES 

7. Between the years of 1782 and 1789. The years Lamb 
attended Christ's Hospital. (See page 9, Introduction.) 

48, 1. Caro equina. Horse flesh. 

49, 1. The ravens ministered to the Tishbite. See I 
Kings XVII, 6. 

2. Calne in Wiltshire. A reference to Coleridge's home 
at Ottery St. Mary in Devonshire. 

51, 1. Lions in the Tower. The royal menagerie was kept 
in London Tower until 1834, when it was taken to Regent's 
Park. 

2. L's governor. Mr. Salt for whom Lamb's father worked 
and who helped secure the author a place at Christ's Hos- 
pital. (See page 9, Introduction.) 

3. H — . Hodges. (Lamb's note.) 

52, 1. Nevis. An island belonging to the British West 
Indies. 

2. St. Kitts. Also an island of the British West Indies. 
It is usually called St. Christopher. 

3. Nero. (37-68), the cruel and tyrannical emperor who 
ruled Rome from 54 to 68 A. D. 

4. Caligula's minion. Caligula (12-41), a Roman emperor, 
made his favorite horse a consul and priest, and fed him 
from a marble manger. 

53, 1. Verrio. Antonio Verrio (1639-1707), an Italian 
decorative painter employed by Charles 11. 

2. Blue-coat boys. The boys at Christ's Hospital, from 
the time it was founded (1553) to the present, have worn 
blue gowns. This accounts for the name, Blue-Coat School, 
which is often applied to the institution. 

3. To feed our mind with idle portraiture. A free trans- 
lation of Virgil's ^neid, Bk. I, 1. 464. 

4. 'Twas said. He ate strange flesh. Adapted from Shake- 
speare. 

It is reported thoji didst eat strange flesh, 
Which some did die to look on. 

Antony and Cleopatra, Act I, Sc. IV, 11. 68-69. 

56, 1. Bedlam. An asylum for lunatics in London; for- 
nnerly the hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem. 

2. Auto da fe. Act of faith. (Portuguese.) 

57, 1. Disfigurements in Dante. A reference to The In- 
ferno by the Italian poet, Dante Alighieri (1265-1321). 

2. TJltima Supplicia. Extreme punishments. 



NOTES 545 

3. San Benito. A robe painted with hideous figures, worn 
by persons condemned by the Inquisition. 

" 58, 1. Pyrenees. A range of mountains which separate 
France and Spain. After the Moorish conquest of Spain in 
the eighth century, these mountains marl^ed the boundary be- 
tween Christian and Mohammedan. 

59, 1. Insolent G-reece or haughty Rome. Quoted from 
Ben Jonson. 

Leave thee alone, for the comparison 

Of all that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome. 

To the Memory of Shakespeare, 11. 38-39. 

2. Peter Wilkins. The Life and Adventures of Peter Wil- 
Tcins, an extravagant tale somewhat like Robinson Crusoe, 
which was published in 1751 by Robert Paltock (1697-1767), 
an English writer. 

3. Rousseau and John Locke. Jacques Rousseau (1712- 
1778), a French philosopher and educational reformer. John 
locke (1632-1704), an English philosopher, who like Rous- 
seau, was also an educational reformer. They both taught 
that the student is to be led to look upon his studies with 
pleasure rather than as a task. 

60, 1. Phaedrus. A Roman writer of fables who lived in 
the early part of the first century A. D. 

2. Helots. Spartan slaves. 

3. Xenophon and Plato. Celebrated Greek historian and 
philosopher of the fifth century B. C. ( See note 46, 5, Oxford 
in the Vacation.) 

4. Silence as deep as that enjoined by the Samite. A ref- 
erence to the practice of Pythagoras, a Greek philosopher of 
the sixth century B. C, who required his followers to keep 
silent on all matters concerning their study with him. 

5. Goshen. The part of Egypt in which the Israelites 
lived before their departure for the Holy Land. It was free 
from the plagues that visited the Egyptians. 

6. Gideon's miracle. See Judges VI, 37-40. 

61, 1. ITlulantes. The howling ones, 

2. Tartarus. In classical mythology, the infernal regions, 

3. Scrannel Pipes. Taken from Milton. 

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw. 

Lycidas, 1. 124. 

4. Flaccus's C[uibl)le about Rex. A reference to Horace's 



546 NOTES 

Satires I, VII, 35. Quintus Horatius Flaccus (65-8 B. C), 
a great Roman writer, commonly called Horace. 

5. Tristis severitas in vultu, or inspicere in patinas, of 
Terence. Grim severity in his countenance or looking upon 
the dishes. Publius Terentius Afer (185?-159? B. C), a 
celebrated Roman comic poet. 

62, 1. Rabidus furor. Raging fury. 

63, 1. Country Spectator. A periodical founded by Thomas 
Middleton (1769-1822), an English clergyman. 

2. Dr. T — e. Dr. Trollope (Lamb's note.) 

64, 1, Cicero De Amicitia. Cicero on Friendship. Marcus 
Tullius Cicero (106-43 B, C. ), a celebrated Roman orator, 
statesman, philosopher, and writer. 

2. Th — Thornton (Lamb's note.) 

3. Regni novitas. New power. 

4. Jewel or Hooker. Theological writers and clergymen 
of the Church of England in the sixteenth century. 

5. Poor S — . Scott; died in Bedlam. (Lamb's note.) 

6. Ill-fated M — . Maunde; dismissed from school. 
(Lamb's note.) 

7. Finding some of Edward's race, etc. Quoted from 
Prior's Carmen Saeculare for 1700, stanza VIII. 

65, 1. Mirandula. Pico della Mirandola (1463-1494), an 
Italian poet and philosopher. The reference here is to Cole- 
ridge. 

2. Jamblichus or Plotinus. Jamblichus, a Greek philos 
opher of the third century who made his home at Alexandria. 
Plotinus. A philosopher of Greek origin, living in the third 
century, Avho spent much of his life at Rome. 

3. Pindar. (522-443 B. C), the greatest of the Greek 
lyric jDoets. 

4. C. V. Le G — . Charles Valentine Le Grice. (Lamb's 
note. ) 

5. Nireus formosus. Nireus, the most beautiful man in 
the Greek army at the siege of Troy. 

66, 1. F — . Favell; left Cambridge, ashamed of his 
father, who was a house painter there. (Lamb's note.) 

2. Salamanca. A province in the western part of Spain 
where a desperate battle was fought in 1812 between the 
English and French. 

3. Fr — . Franklin. (Lamb's note.) 

4. Marmaduke T — . Marmaduke Thompson. (Lamb's 
note. ) 



NOTES 547 



THE TWO RACES OF MEN 

66, 5. The London Magazine, December, 1820. 

6. Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites. See Acts of the 
Apostles, II, 9. 

67, 1. Lean and suspicious. Adapted from Shakespeare. 

Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look. 

Julius Cwsar, Act I, Sc. 11, 1. 194. 

2. Alcibiades, (450-404 B. C), an Athenian general and 
statesmaa. Falstaif. Sir John Falstaff, a humorous character 
in Shakespeare's King Henry IV (Parts I and II), and Merry 
Wives of Windsor. Sir Richard Steele (1672-1729), a noted 
English essayist, associated with Addison in the publication 
of the The Spectator and the writing of the Sir Roger de 
Coverley Papers. Brinsley. Richard Brinsley Sheridan 
(1751-1816), an English statesman and dramatist; best known 
for his comedies, The School for Scandal and The Rivals. 

3. Meum and tuum. What is mine and what is thine. 

4. Tooke. A name assumed by John Home (1736-1812), 
an English philosopher and politician. 

68, 1. His Candlemas, or his Feast of Holy Michael. 
Candlemas. A festival celebrated on February 2 in honor of 
the purification of the Virgin Mary; so called because of the 
great number of candles used on the occasion. Feast of Holy 
Michael. Feast of Saint Michael the Archangel; celebrated 
on September 29. 

2. Lene tormentum. Pleasing torture. Quoted from Hor- 
ace, III, Ode XXI, 1. 13. 

3. Propontic. An ancient name for the Sea of Marmora, 
lying between the Black and Archipelago Seas, south-east of 
Turkey. 

4. Of Lazarus and of Dives. See Saint Luke's Gospel, 
XVI, 20-31. 

5. Ralph Bigod, Esq. John Fenwick, editor of the " Al- 
bion.'" (Lamb's note.) 

69, 1. To slacken virtue, etc. See Milton's Paradise Re- 
gained. Book II, 11. 455-456. 

70, 1. Stocked with so fair a herd. Taken from Milton. 

Be well stocked with as fair a herd as grazed 
About my mother Circe. 

Comus, 11. 152-153. 

2. Hag^ar's offspring. See Genesis, XXI, 9-14. 



548 NOTES 



3. Cana fides. Unsullied faith. 

71, 1. Comberbatch. The name under which Coleridge en- 
listed in a company of dragoons in 1793. 

2. Switzer-like tomes. Books of large size. The soldiers 
of the " Swiss Guard " were famous for their size, lience the 
term, " Switzer-like." 

3. Guildhall giants. Two great wooden statues, called Gog 
and Magog, which once stood at the entrance to the Guildhall, 
the ancient council chamber of London. 

4. Opera Bonaventurae. The works of Saint Bonaventura 
(1221-1274), an Italian philosopher and theologian. 

5. Bellarmine, and Holy Thomas. Cardinal Roberto Bel- 
larmino (1542-1621), an Italian Jesuit theologian. Saint 
Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274), also an Italian theologian. 

6. Ascapart. A giant thirty feet in height, conquered by 
Bevis of Hampton. He is frequently mentioned by Elizabethan 
writers. 

72, 1. Brown on Urn-Burial. Hydrotaphia, or Urn-Burial, 
a w^ork written by Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682), an Eng- 
lish author. " It is a descant on the vanity of human life, 
based on the discovery of certain cinerary urns in Norfolk." 

2. Dodsley's dramas. A series of early English dramas, 
edited by Robert Dodsley (1703-1764), under the title of 
Select Collection of Old Plays. Lamb made use of them while 
preparing his Specimens of English Dramatic Poets contem- 
porary icith Shakespeare, (See page 12, Introduction.) 

3. Vittoria Corombona. A tragedy by John Webster 
(1580?-1625?). It is frequently known as The White Devil. 

4. Priam's refuse sons, when the Fates borrowed Hector. 
The other sons of Priam, King of Troy, were insigTiificant 
when compared with Hector, and quickly sank into obscurity 
when Hector was slain. See Pope's Homer^s Iliad. 

5. Anatomy of Melancholy. A unique psychological work, 
dealing with the cause of and cure for melancholy, written 
by Robert Burton (1577-1640). 

6. Complete Angler. A famous treatise on angling written 
by Izaak Walton (1593-1683). 

7. John Buncle. A romance by Thomas Amory (1691- 
1788), which was a favorite with Lamb. 

73, 1. C. Coleridge. 

2. K. James Kenney, a dramatic writer, best known for 
his farce. Raising the Wind. He and Lamb were close friends. 

3. Margaret Newcastle (1624-1673), author of "The Life 
of William Cavendish, Earl of Newcastle." 



NOTES 549 

74, 1. Fulke Greville, Lord Brook (1554-1628), an Eng- 
lish author of some repute, his works including poetry, drama, 
and biography. His Life of Sidney is probably his best pro- 
duction. 

2. Zimmerman on Solitude. Johann George Zimmerman 
(1728-1795), a Swiss physician and philosopher, who wrote 
On Solitude in 1755. 

3. Daniel. Samuel Daniel (1562-1619), an English poet 
and prose writer, contemporary with Spenser. 

NEW YEAR'S EVE 

75, 1. The London Magazine, January, 1821. 

2. I saw the skirts of the departing Year. Quoted from 
Coleridge's Ode to the Departing Year, Stanza I, 1. 8. 

76, 1. Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest. 
Quoted from- Pope's Homer's Odyssey. Bk. XV, 1. 84. 

2. Alice W — n. Alice Winterton. (Lamb's note.) Her 
real name was Ann Simmons. She was the reputed sweetheart 
of Lamb's youth and afterwards married a Mr. Bartram, a 
wealthy London pawnbroker. 

79, 1. Like a weaver's shuttle. Paraphrased from the 
Book of Job, VII, 6. My days are swifts than a weaver's 
shuttle, and are spent without hope. 

80, 1. Lavinian shores. Paraphrased from Virgil. 

Laviniaque venit litora. 

J^neid, I, 11, 3. 

2. " Sweet assurance of a look." Adapted from Royden. 
A full assurance given by lookes. 

Elegy on Sir Philip Sidney, 1. 14. 

81, 1. Phoebus' sickly sister. The moon. In classic my- 
thology Phoebus or Apollo was the sun god, and Diana or 
Cynthia, his twin sister, the moon goddess. ( See classical dic- 
tionary. ) 

2. One denounced in the Canticles. See the Canticle of 
Canticles or Song of Solomon, VIII, 8-9. 

3. I hold with the Persian. Zoroaster, the founder of a 
religion based on the worship of the sun, was a Persian. 

4. Friar John. A ranting character in Rabelais' satirical 
work Gargantua. 

5. Lie down with kings and emperors in death. Quoted 
from Browne's Hydrotaphia, or Urn-Burial. (See note 72, 1,, 
The TiDO Races of Men.) 

82, 1. Mr. Cotton. Charles Cotton (1630-1687), an Eng-- 



550 NOTES 

lisli poet and translator. His best known works are his trans- 
lation of Montaigne's Essays, and his Complete Angler, a 
continuation of Izaak Walton's famous production, (See note 
72, 6, The Tico Races of Men,) 

2. Janus. An old Italian deity, the god of the sun and 
the year to whom the month of January was sacred; not to 
be confused with the two-faced Latin god of the same name, 
(See classical dictionary.) 

84, 1. Helicon. A mountain in Greece upon one of whose 
slopes classical mythology located the Hippocrene and Agan- 
ippe fountains sacred to the Muses. 

2, Spa. Originally the name given a famous watering- 
place in Belgium, but which is now applied to any resort 
of that nature. 

MRS. BATTLE'S OPimONS ON WHIST 

84, 3. The London Magazine, February, 1821. 

86, I. Pope. Alexander Pope (1688-1744), a famous Eng- 
lish poet of the Augustan Age. Among his greatest works 
are The Essay on Man, The Essay on Criticism, and The Rape 
of the Lock. 

2. Rape of th5 Lock. A mock-heroic poem based upon a 
trivial incident. It is usually regarded as Pope's greatest 
work. (See note 86, 1, above.) 

3. Celebrated game of Ombre. See The Rape of the Loch, 
Canto III. 

4. Mr. Bowles. William Lisle Bowles (1762-1850), an 
English clergyman and poet, known for his Sonnets and his 
edition of Pope's works. 

5. Spadille. The ace of spades at ombre and quadrille. 

87, 1. Sans Prendre Vole. A term at cards which means 
" without taking the play that wins all the tricks." 

2. Machiaeval. Niccolo Machiaeval (1469-1527), a noted 
Italian statesman and historian. Among his historical works 
is one on Florence which is the one Lamb refers to. 

88, 1. Vandykes. Sir Anthony Van Dyke (1599-1641), a 
celebrated Flemish painter, who spent much of his life in 
London as court painter to King Charles I. 

2. Paul Potters. Paul Potter (1625-1654), a noted Dutch 
painter of portraits and animals. 

89, 1. Pam in all his glory. The knave of clubs. 

2. Ephesian journeyman. See Acts of the Apostles, XIX, 
24-41. 



NOTES 551 

3. Sienna marble. A valuable marble found at Sienna, 
Italy. It is of a brownish-yellow color. 

4. Old Walter Plumer. See note 37, 1, The South-Sea 
House. 

93, 1. Bridget Elia. The name given by Lamb in the 
essays to his sister Mary. 

A CHAPTER ON EARS 

94, I. The London Magazine, March, 1821. 

95, 1. Defoe. Daniel Defoe ( 1061-1731), a famous novelist 
and political writer; author of the first English novel, Roli- 
inson Crusoe. He was punished on one occasion for publish- 
ing a political article by having his ears cropped. 

2. Mrs. S — . Mrs. Spinkes. (Lamb's note.) 

97, 1. Sostenuto and adagio. Musical terms meaning sus- 
tained and slow. 

2. Baralipton. A term in logic having to do with the 
syllogism. 

3. Jubal. The world's first musician. 

And his brother's name was Jubal; he was the father of 
all such as handle the harp and organ. 

Genesis, IV, 21. 

98, 1. Hades. In classical mythology, the underworld over 
which Pluto ruled. 

2. Party in a parlor, etc. Quoted from a rejected stanza 
of Wordsworth's Peter Bell. 

99, 1. Disappointing book in Patmos. See the Book of 
Revelation, X, 10. 

2. Amabilis insania and mentis gratissimus error. A 
pleasing madness and most pleasant distraction. 

100, 1. Subrusticns pudor. Awkward bashfulness. 

2. Nov — . Vincent Novello, a composer of music with 
whom Lamb was well acquainted. 

101, 1. Haydn and Mozart. Joseph Haydn (1732-1809), 
a noted Austrian musician and composer. Wolfgang Amadeus 
Mozart (1719-1787), also a famous Austrian musician and 
composer. 

2. Bach, Beethoven. Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750), 
a celebrated German musician and composer, Ludwig von 
Beethoven (1770-1827), also a noted German musician and 
composer, 

3. Malleus hereticorum. Hammer of heretics, 

4. Marcion. A noted heretic of the second century. He 



552 NOTES 

founded the Marcionite sect and wrote several treatises to 
disprove the teachings of the Gospel of Luke and the Epistles 
bi Paul. Eblon. Founder of the sect of Ebionites who ac- 
cepted part of the teachings of the Bible and rejected the 
remainder. Cerinthus. Founder of a sect of heretics known 
as Cerinthians in the latter part of the first century. Gog 
and Mag-Qg. Princes of evil who are to assist Satan in his 
final struggle against the church. (See the Book of Revela- 
tion, XX, 7.) 

ALL FOOL'S DAY 

102, 1. The London Magazine, April, 1821. 

2. Stultus sum. I am a fool. 

3. Due ad me. Come to me. 

4. Here shall he see, etc. Quoted from Shakespeare's As 
You Like It. 

Act II, Sc. V, 11. 52-53. 

103, 1. Empedocles (490-430 B. C), a famous Greek phi- 
losopher, poet, and statesman. He is said to have committed 
suicide by throwing himself into the crater of Etna. Read 
Matthew Arnold's Empedocles on Etna. 

2. Cleombrotus ( ?-371 B. C.), a king of Sparta who 
was slain in battle at Leuctra while warring against the 
Thebans. 

3. Sect of the Calenturists. Persons suffering from a 
furious delirium caused by the heat of the tropical sun at 
sea which often leads to suicide by drowning. 

4. Gebir. An Arabian alchemist of the eighth century. 
It is not clear why Lamb refers to him in connection with 
the Tower of Babel. 

5. Babel. See Genesis, XI, 1-9. 

6. Herodotus (484-424 B. C.), a celebrated Greek his- 
torian, surnamed " The Father of History." 

7. Sennaar. The country in which the Tower of Babel 
was built. The name is usually written Shiner. (See note 
5, above. ) 

104, 1. Alexander in tears. Alexander the Great (356- 
323 B. C.), who is said to have wept after conquering the 
known world, because there were no more worlds to subdue. 

2. Good Master Raymund Lully. A Spanish alchemist of 
the thirteenth century. 

3. Duns. Duns Scotus, a highly educated monk of the 
thirteenth century. He wrote several theological treatises. 

4. Master Stephen — Cokes — Aguecheek — Master Shal- 



NOTES 553 

low — Slender. Characters (noted for their lack of intelli- 
gence) found in the plays of Ben Jonson and Shakespeare. 

5. Honest R — . Eanisay. (Lamb's note.) 

105, 1. Good Granville S — . Grandville Sharp. (Lamb's 
note. ) 

2. Xing' Pandion, lie is dead, etc. Quoted from To a 
Nightmgale, by Richard Barnfield (1574-1627). 

3. Cluisada. Don Quixote, hero of the romance by that 
name, written by the Spanish writer Miguel de Cervantes 
(1547-1616). 

4. Macheath, The chief character in Gay's Beggar's Opera. 
He is represented as being a rollicking highwayman. 

5. Malvolian smile. Taken from Shakespeare. 

No, madam, he (Malvolio) does nothing but smile. 

Twelfth Night, Act III, Sc. IV, 1. 11. 

6. Gay. John Gay (1685-1732), an English dramatist and 
poet. ( See note 4, above ) . 

A QUAKER'S MEETING 

107, 1. The London Magazine, April, 1821. 

108, 1. Nor pour wax — self -mistrusting' Ulysses. A ref- 
erence to the incident in Homer's Odyssey in which Ulysses 
fills the ears of his sailors with wax so that they might not 
hear the song of the Sirens. 

2. " Boreas, and Cesias, and Argestes loud." Quoted from 
Milton's Paradise Lost, Bk. X, 1. 699. 

109, 1. Carthusian. An order of monks founded by St. 
Bruno in 1086. The vows taken were exceptionally strict. 

2. Master Zimmerman. See note 74, 2, The Tivo Races 
of Men. 

3. The Abbey Church of Westminster hath nothing so 
solemn. Read Irving's Westminster Ahhey in The Sketch 
Book. 

110, 1. Pox. George Fox (1624-1691), the founder of the 
society of Friends. He was arrested several times for violating 
the conventicle laws. 

2. Penn before his accusers. William Penn (1644-1718), 
the well known Quaker who founded Philadelphia was also 
arrested under the Conventicle Act on several occasions. 

111, 1. Sewel's History of the Quakers, A History of 
the Christian People Called Quakers by William Sewel (1654- 
1720). 

2. James Naylor (1618-1660), a Quaker fanatic who be- 



554 NOTES 

lieved himself to be Christ reincarnated. He was convicted 
of blasphemy by Parliament and severely punished. 

3. John Woolman (1720-1772), a Quaker born in New 
Jersey. He is known to the literary world through his Jour- 
nal which Lamb thought a great deal of. 

113, 1. Jocos Risus-que. Jokes and laughter. 

2. Loves fled the face of Dis at Enna. A reference to 
the abduction of Proserpina who was carried away by Pluto 

(Dis) as she played with the Loves in the Vale of Enna. 
(See note 98, 1, A Chapter on Ears; also classical dic- 
tionary. ) 

3. Trophonius. An oracle in Bceotia, whose answers al- 
ways made those who consulted it melancholy. 

114, 1. Whitsun-conferences. Yearly gatherings of the 
Quakers. Whitsun (meaning White Sunday) is the seventh 
Sunday after Easter; the day of Pentecost. 

2. Troops of the Shining Ones. Shining Ones is a term 
used by Bunyan in his Pilgrim's Progress, Part I. 

THE OLD AND THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER 

114, 3. The London Magazine, May, 1821. 

4. Ortelius. Abraham Ortelius (1527-1598), a Flemish 
geographer. He published an atlas and encouraged Camden 
to produce his Britannia. 

5. Arrowsmith. Aaron Arrowsmith (1750-1823), a cele- 
brated English geographer and chartographer, 

6. Van Diemen's Land. A name formerly applied to Tas- 
mania, an island south of Australia. 

7. Terrse Incognitae. Unknown land. 

8. The Bear, or Charles's Wain. The Bear is one of two 
constellations in the northern hemisphere, called the Greater 
and Lesser Bear. Charles's Wain is the cluster of stars known 
as the Dipper. 

115, 1. Venus. The second planet from the sun. 

2. My friend M. Thomas Manning. (Lamb's note.) 

3. Euclid. A famous Greek geometer of the fourth cen- 
tury B. C. His chief work is the Elements, much in use 
in schools at the present time. 

4. Small Latin and less Greek. From Ben Jonson. 

And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek. 
Lines to the Memory of Shakespeare, 1. 31. 

117, 1. Sirens. Sea nymphs who by music allured sailors 
to destruction. (See note 108, 1, A Quakers' Meeting.) 



NOTES 555 

2. Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women. 

When the Greeks were drawing- up their forces to sail for 
Troy, Thetis, the mother of Achilles, sought to save her son 
who was fated to perish if he went on the expedition by 
hiding him among the women at the court of King Ly- 
comedes. There he was discovered by Ulysses. 

119, 1. Lilys and the Linacres. William Lily (1468- 
1522), a noted English grammarian. Thomas Linacre (1460- 
1524), a celebrated English physician and classical scholar. 
He published many works on grammar. 

2. Arcadia. See note 37, 6, The South-Sea Bouse. 

3. Basileus — Pamela — Philoclea — Mopsa — Damoctas. 
Characters in the pastoral poem Arcadia written by Sir Philip 
Sidney. 

4. Preface to Colet's. John Colet (1466-1519), a celebrated 
English theologian and classical scholar. 

120, 1. Solon, or Lycurgus. Solon (638-559 B. C), a 
noted Athenian lawgiver. Lycurgus (396-323 B. C), a cel- 
ebrated Greek orator and statesman. 

121, 1. Cum multis aliis. With many others. 

2. Tractate on Education addressed to Mr. Hartlib. A 
treatise entitled Of Education, by John Milton (1608-1674). 

3. Mollia tempora fandi. Paraphrased from Virgil's 
Mneid, Bk. IV, 1. 293. 

VALENTINE'S DAY 

126, 1. This essay first appeared in Leigh Hunt's Exam- 
iner in 1819, and was republished in his Indicator in 1821. 

2. Bishop Valentine. Saint Valentine was a Christian 
who was put to death at Rome, February 14, 270. There 
has long been a popular superstition that on that day of the 
year birds begin to mate. Hence, perhaps, arose the custom 
of observing it by sending missives containing professions of 
love and affection. 

3. Hymen. In classical mythology, the god of marriage. 

127, 1. Jerome, nor Ambrose, nor Cyril. Jerome (340- 
420), a father of the Latin Church. He was the first publisher 
of the Vulgate, the Latin version of the Bible. Ambrose 
(340-397), another father of the Latin Church. Cyril (820- 
869 ) , a missionary among the Slavs, surnamed the " Apostle 
of the Slavs." 

2. Austin. Saint Augustine (354-440), the most noted 
father of the Latin Church. He is the author of several 
religious treatises, the greatest of which is his Confessiones. 



556 NOTES 

3. Origen (185-253), one of the Greek fathers of the 
church. He was a writer of religious works. 

4. Bishop Bull, nor Archbishop Parker, nor Whitgift. 
Bishops of the Church of England in the sixteenth and seven- 
teenth centuries. 

5. Brusli'd with the hiss of rustling wings. Quoted from 
Milton's Paradise Lost, Bk. I, 1. 768. 

6. Singing Cupids. Cupid, god of love. 

128, 1. Announced the fatal entrance of Duncan. A ref- 
erence to Shakespeare. 

The raven himself is hoarse 
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
Under my battlements. 

Macbeth, Act I, Sc. V, 11. 38-40. 

129, 1. E. B — . Edward Burney. (Lamb's note.) 

130, 1. Ovid (43 B. C.-18 A. D.), the greatest Roman 
poet of the Augustan age; best known for his Metamorphoses, 
Fas'ti, Ars Amatoria, Heroides, and Amoves. 

2. Pyramus and Thisbe. Lovers in Shakespeare's A Mid- 
Summer Night's Dream. Bead Act V. 

3. Dido. The queen of Carthage who committed suicide 
because her love for ^neas was not requited. 

4. Hero and Leander. Lovers in classical mythology. 
Leander was drowned while swimming the Hellespont to visit 
Hero and when she learned of it she threw herself into the 
sea. (See classical dictionary.) 

5. Cayster. A river in Ionia Avhere, according to legend, 
swans were accustomed to gather in large numbers. 

6. Good-morrow to my Valentine, sings poor Ophelia. A 
reference to Shakespeare's Hamlet. 

To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day, 

All in the morning betime. 
And I a maid at your window 

To be your Valentine. 

Hamlet (Ophelia's Song), Act IV, Sc. V. 

IMPEREECT SYMPATHIES 

131, 1. The London Magazine, August, 1821. 

2. Religio Medici (A Physician's Religion), a religious 
treatise by Sir Thomas Browne. (See note 72, 1, The Two 
Races of Men.) 



NOTES 557 

133, 1. Anti-Caledonian. Caledonia, the Roman name for 
Scotland; now used only in poetry. 

134, 1. Minerva. The Eonian goddess of wisdom. She 
sprang from the head of Jupiter fully equipped for battle. 

135, 1. John Buncle. See note 72, 7, The Two Races of 
Men. 

2. Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519), a celebrated Italian 
painter. 

136, 1. Burns. Robert Burns (1759-1796), the greatest 
of the Scotch lyric poets and song writers. 

2. Swift. Jonathan Swift (1667-1745), a noted English 
satirist. He is the author of Gulliver's Travels. 

137, 1. Thomson. James Thomson (1700-1748), a 
Scotch poet; best known for his The Seasons. 

2. Smollett. Tobias George Smollett (1721-1771)', a 
Scotch novelist; author of Roderick Random and Humphrey 
Clinker. 

3. Rory and his companion. Characters in Roderick Ran- 
dom. (See note 2, above.) 

4. Hume's History. David Hume (1711-1776), a Scotch 
historian and philosopher. 

5. Stonehenge. The ruin of a prehistoric Celtic monument 
in the rnidst of Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire, England. 

6. Hugh of Lincoln. A Christian youth, who, according to 
legend, was tortured and murdered by the Jews of Lincoln, 
England in 1255. The myth has been treated of in several 
old ballads in Percy's Reliques' and in the Prioress's Tale in 
Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. 

138, 1. B — . Braham (Lamb's note.) 

2. Kemble. John Philip Kemble (1757-1823), a famous 
English actor. He was the brother of the celebrated actress 
Mrs. Siddons. 

139, 1. Jael. The wife of Heber the Kenite, who slew 
Sisera, a Canaanite captain. See Judges, IV, 18-22. 

2. Fuller. Thomas Fuller (1608-1661), an English author; 
best known for his The Worthies of England. 

3. Desdemona. A character in Shakespeare's Othello. She 
is the wife of the Moor. 

4. To live with them. A paraphrase from Shakespeare. 

That I did love the Moor to live with him. 

Othello, Act I, Sc. Ill, 1. 249. 

140, 1. Evelyn.- John Evelyn (1620-1706), an English 
writer, He is best known for his Memoirs. 



558 NOTES 

143, 1. India House. The East India House, where Lamb 
worked most of his life. (See page 9, Introduction.) 

WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT-FEARS 

143, 2. The London Magaxine, October, 1821. 

144, 1. Prospero. A magician in Shakespeare's The Tem- 
pest. Read Act I, Sc. II. 

145, 1. What stops the Fiend in Spenser from tearing 
Guyon to pieces. In the Fcerie Queen, by Edmund Spenser 
(1552-1598), a celebrated English poet, Sir Guyon, the knight 
of Temperance, is made to pass through some very thrilling 
experiences in the cave of Mammon and during the siege 
of the House of Temperance. (See Bk. II, Cantos VII and 
XL) 

2. Stackhouse. Thomas Stackhouse (1756-1836), an Eng- 
lish antiquary and theologian. 

3. Witch raising up Samuel. A reference to King Saul's 
visit to the Witch of Endor. (See I Samuel XXVIII, 11-20.) 

146, 1. Saint George. The patron saint of England. He is 
known as the Red-Cross Knight in the Fcerie Queen, where 
he is represented as the victor over the monster, Error. (See 
Bk. 1, Canto I.) 

148, 1. Headless bear, black man, or ape. Quoted from 
Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, page 111. (See note 72, 5, 
The Tico Races of Men.) 

2. T. H. Thornton Hunt. (Lamb's note.) He was the 
eldest son of Leigh Hunt, the poet. 

149, 1. Gorgons and Hydras and Chimaeras. The Gor- 
gons were three sister-monsters of classical mythology that 
petrified every one they looked at. Instead of hair their 
heads were covered with serpents. The Hydra was a mon- 
ster serpent, which had a hundred heads. The Chimaera was 
a monster with the head and breast of a lion, the body of a 
goat, and the tail of a serpent. (See classical dictionary.) 

2. Celseno and the Harpies. Celseno, one of the Harpies, 
which in classical mythology are represented as being ugly 
creatures with the heads of maidens and the bodies of birds. 

150, 1. Like one that on a lonesome road, etc. Quoted 
from Coleridge's Rijne of the Ancient Mariner, 11. 446-451. 

151, 1. Helvellyn. One of the highest mountain peaks in 
the Cumberland district in England. 

2. Where Alph, the sacred river, runs. Quoted from Cole- 
ridge's KuMa Khan, 1. 3. Read the poem. 



NOTES , 559 

3. Barry Cornwall (1790-1874), a writer of sea songs. 
His real name was Bryan Waller Procter. 

4. Neptune. In classical mythology the god of the sea. 

5. Ino Lucothea. The wife of Athamas, King of Thebes. 
Because of unhappiness she drowned herself and was changed 
by Neptune into a sea-goddess. 

MY RELATIONS 

152, 1. The London Magazine, June, 1821. 

2. Browne's Christian Morals. See note 131, 2, Imperfect 
Sympathies. 

153, 1. Thomas a Kempis (1380-1471), a German theo- 
logian; the author of De Imitatione Christi. 

154, 1. James and Bridget Elia. The names that Lamb 
gives his brother and sister in his essays. (See page 9, Intro- 
duction; also note 93, 1, Mrs. Battle's Opinions on Whist.) 

155, 1. Yorick. The pen name of Laurence Sterne (1713- 
1768), an English writer, in his Sentimental Journey through 
France and Italy. The name is also given to a character in 
Tristram Shandy, by the same author. 

2. Shandian lights and shades. A reference to the work, 
Tristram Shandy mentioned in note 1, above. 

3. Dominichlno. A painting by the noted Italian artist 
Domenico Zampieri (1581-1641), who is best known for his 
Communion of St. Jerome, Diana and her Isiymphs, and The 
Martyrdom of St. Agnes. 

156, 1. Charles of Sweden. Charles XII (1682-1718), the 
famous warrior-king of Sweden. 

2. Cham of Tartary. The sovereign prince of the Mon- 
golian countries. He is commonly represented as a despot. 

158, 1. A Claude — or a Hohbima. Landscapes by Claude 
Lorrain (1600-1689), a celebrated French artist; or Hob- 
bima (1638-1709), a noted Dutch artist, 

2. Christie's, and Phillips's. Art auction rooms in Lon- 
don. 

3. Westward Ho. A cry used by the boatmen of former 
times on the Thames. It is also the title of one of Charles 
Kingsley's novels. 

159, 1. " Cynthia of the minute." Quoted from Pope's 
Moral Es'says, Ep. II, 1. 20. Cynthia is the goddess of the 
moon. (See classical dictionary.) 

2. Madonna. The Virgin Mary is a favorite subject with 



560 NOTES 

the world's greatest artists, including such men as Raphael, 
Maratti, Titian, Botticelli, Murillo, Van Dyck, and Correggio. 

3. Raphael. Raphael Sanzio (1483-1520), the celebrated 
Italian painter; best known for his The Marriage of the 
Virgin, The Transfiguratioti, St. George, and The Sistiiie 
Madonna. 

4. Carracci, Agostino, Annibale, and Lodovico Carracci, 
were sixteenth century Italian painters of the Bolognese 
school. 

5. Lucca Giordano (1632-1705), an Italian artist who 
lived in Naples. 

6. Carlo Maratti (1625-1713), an Italian painter best 
known for his Madonnas. 

7. Set forth in pomp, etc. Quoted from Shakespeare's 
Richard II, Act V, Sc. I, 11. 78-80. 

160, 1. Thomas Clarkson (1760-1846), an English aboli- 
tionist who was associated with William Wilberforce in the 
stamping out of the slave trade. 

2 (( True yoke-fellow with Time." Quoted from Words- 
worth. 

O true yoke-felloiu of Time, 
Duty's intrepid liegeman. 

Sonnet to Thomas Clarkson, II. 8-9. 

161, 1. Through the green plains of pleasant Hertford- 
shire. Taken from one of Lamb's sonnets. 

MACKERY END, IN HERTFORDSHIRE 

162, 1. The London Magazine, July, 1821. 

2. The rash king's offspring. The daughter of Jephthah. 
(See Judges', XI, 30-40.) 

3. Old Burton. See note 72, 5, The Tido Races of Men. 

163, 1. Religio Medici. See note 131, 2, Imperfect Sym- 
pathies. 

2. Margaret Newcastle. See note 73, 3, The Tico Races 
of Men. 

166, 1, But thoii, that didst appear so fair. From Words- 
worth's Yarroiv Visited. 

168, 1. B. F. Barrow Field. (Lamb's note.) 

MODERN GALLANTRY 

169, 1. The London Magazine, November, 1822. 

2. Dorimant. A character in The Man of Mode, or Sir 



NOTES 561 

Foppling Flutter, a comedy by Sir George Etherege (1635- 
1691). 

172, 1. Preux Chevalier. A knightly defender. 

2. Sir Calidore, or Sir Tristan. Sir Calidore, a character 
in Spenser's Fcerie Queen, Bk. VI, the personification of 
Courtesy. Sir Tristan. A kniglit of King Arthur's Round 
Table. 

THE OLD BENCHERS OF THE INNER TEMPLE 

175, 1. The London Magazine, September, 1821. The Tem- 
ple has been described by Barry Cornwall as follows : " On 
the south side of Fleet Street, near to where it joins Temple 
Bar, lies the Inner Temple. — About seven hundred years 
ago it was the abiding place of the Knights Templars, 
who erected there a church, which still uplifts its round 
tower for the wonder of modern times." On the same site 
now stand the two Inns of Court — the Inner and Middle 
Temples — belonging to a legal society. 

The characters dealt with in the essay are, with one or 
two possible exceptions, taken from real life. 

2. There when they came, etc. Quoted from Spenser's 
Prothalamium, Stanza VIII. 

176, 1. Twickenham Naiades. Twickenham, the home of 
Pope, was higher up the river above " the trade-polluted 
waters " of the town, hence offering a more suitable dwelling 
place for the river'-nymphs. 

2. Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand, etc. Shake- 
speare's Sonnets, 104. 

177, 1. " Carved it out quaintly in the sun." Adapted 
from Shakespeare. 

To sit upon a hill, as I do now. 

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point. 

King Henry VI, Act II, Sc. V, 11. 23-24. 

2. Marvell. Andrew Marvell (1621-1678), an English 
lyric poet. He was associated with Milton as secretary to 
Cromwell. 

178, 1. What wondrous life is this I lead, etc. From 
Marvell's The Garden. This poem may be found in the Golden 
Treasury of English Lyrics. 

180, 1. J — 11. Jekyll, Master in Chancery. (Lamb's note.) 

181, 1. Samuel Salt. See page 9, Introduction. 

2. Level. John Lamb, the author's father, who died in 
1797. Note Lamb's characterization of him. 



562 NOTES 

182, 1. Miss Blandy. A woman who was hanged in 1752 
for poisoning her father at the instigation of her lover. 

2. P — . Pierson. (Lamb's note.) 

183, 1. Hie currus et arma fuere. Here she kept her 
chariot of war and her arms. 

2. Mad Elwes breed. John Elwes (1714-1789), a noted 
English miser. 

185, 1. Gay as Garrick's. David Garrick (1717-1779), 
the greatest actor of the eighteenth century. He was also 
a successful theater manager. 

2. Swift and Prior. Swift. See note 136, 2, Imperfect 
Sympathies. Matthew Prior (1664-1721), an English poet. 

3. Mr. Isaac Walton. See note 72, 6, The Tico Races of 
Men. 

4. Bayes. The leading character in Buckingham's Re- 
hearsal, a satire on the tragedies of Dryden and his con- 
temporaries. 

188, 1. Friar Bacon. Eoger Bacon (1214-1294), an Eng- 
lish philosopher and scientist. He is represented as a magi- 
cian in Friar Bacon and Priar Bungay, a comedy by Robert 
Greene (1560-1592). 

2. Michael Angelo's Moses. A statue in the church of 
San Pietro in Vincoli, Rome, made by INlichael Angelo ( 1475- 
1564), a celebrated Italian sculptor, painter, poet, and archi- 
tect. 

189, 1. R. N. Randal Norris. (Lamb's note.) 

190, 1. TJrban's obituary. Urban, the pen name of the 
editor of the Gentleman's Magazine. 

2. Hookers and Seldens. Richard Hooker (1553-1600), a 
Master of the Temple, and author of The Laics of Ecclesias- 
tical Polity. John Selden (1584-1654), an English antiquary 
and jurist who lived in the Inner Temple. 

GRACE BEFORE MEAT 

191, 1. The London Magazine, November, 1821. 

192, 1. Fairy Queen. The great allegorical poem by Spen- 
ser. (See note 145, 1, Witches, and Other 'Night Fears.) 
Note Lamb's spelling. 

2. Utopian Rabelaesian. Utopian, derived from Utopia, an 
imaginary island, the seat of an ideal commonwealth ; and 
Rabelaesian from Rabelais (1495-1553), a noted French hu- 
morist whose works are noted for their license and satire. 

193, 1. A rarus hospes. An infrequent quest. 



NOTES 563 

194, 1. Jeshurun waxed fat. See Deuteronomy, XXXII, 
15. 

2. Celseno. See note 149, 2, Witches, and Other Night- 
Fears. 

195, 1. A table richly spread in regal mode, etc. Quoted 
from Milton's Paradise Regained, Bk. II, 11. 340-347. 

196, 1. Heliogabalus (204-222), a Eoman emperor famous 
for debauchery. 

2. As appetite is wont to dream, etc. Quoted from Para- 
dise Regained, Bk. II, 11. 264-278. 

198, 1. C — . Coleridge. (Lamb's note.) 

2. The author of the Rambler. Dr. Samuel Johnson. 
(See note 37, 4, The South Sea-House.) The Rambler was 
a periodical modeled after the Spectator. 

3. Dagon. A god of the Philistines which was half man 
and half fish. (See Judges, XVI, 23; also I Samuel, V, 1-7.) 

199, 1. Chartreuse. The principal Carthusian monastery; 
situated near Grenoble, France. (See note 109, 1, A Quakers' 
Meeting. ) 

200, 1. lucian. A Greek writer of the second century 
whose satires on the religious beliefs of his day led to his 
being given the surname the " Blasphemer." 

2. C. V. L. Charles Valentine le Grice. (Lamb's note.) 

201, 1. Non tunc illis erat locus. There was no place 
for them at that time. 

2. Horresco referens. At the recital, I shudder. 

MY FIRST PLAY 

201, 3. The London Magazine, December, 1821. 

4. Garrick's Drury. The Drury Lane Theatre 'was opened 
shortly after the Restoration. It burned down and was re- 
built in 1674. Garrick became manager of it in 1747. (See 
note 185, 1, The Old Benchers of the Inner Temple.) 

202, 1. My godfather F. Field. (Lamb's note.) 

2. Sheridan. Thomas Sheridan (1721-1788), an Irish 
author and actor. He followed Garrick as manager of the 
Drury Lane Theater. 

203, 1. Ciceronian. After the manner of Cicero (106-43 
B. C), a celebrated Roman orator, philosopher, and statesman. 

2. Seneca or Varro. Lucius Annseus Seneca (4 B. C.- 
65 A. D.), a noted Roman philosopher belonging to the society 
of Stoics. Marcus Terentius Varro (116-27 B. C), a cele- 
brated Roman author and scholar. 



564 NOTES 

3. St. Andrew's. A university, including a school of the- 
ology, at St. Andrews, a city in south-eastern Scotland. 

204, 1. Troilus and Cressida. A tragic comedy by Shake- 
speare. The story of these lovers has been a favorite theme 
v^dth authors. (See Chaucer, Dekker and Chettle and Dry- 
den.) 

2. Diomede. A character in Troilus and Cressida whom 
Shakespeare designates as a Grecian prince. 

3. Auroras. Aurora, the goddess of the dawn. (See 
classical dictionary. ) 

205, 1. Artaxerxes. An opera by Thomas Arne (1710- 
1778). 

2. Darius. The Median king who captured Babylon and 
slew Belshazzar. It was he who cast Daniel into the lion's 
den. (See Daniel, V, 30-31; VI, 16-24.) 

3. Persepolis. One of the capitals of the ancient Persian 
Empire. It was made a capital by Darius I and was de- 
stroyed by Alexander the Great. 

4. Legend of St. Denys. St. Denys is the patron saint of 
France. He was beheaded and legend has it that he arose 
after his execution, carrying his head with him. 

5. Lun's Ghost — a satiric touch upon Rich. John Rich 
(1681-1761), who introduced pantomime upon the English 
stage. 

206, 1. Lud. The mythological founder of London. 

2. Motley. Jester or fool ; so called because of the dress 
of many colors worn by such characters. 

3. Way of the World. A comedy by William Congreve 
(1670-1729), a noted English dramatist. 

207, 1. Mrs. Siddons in Isabella. Mrs. Siddons (1755- 
1831), a noted English tragic actress. Isabella, a tragedy 
(first called the Fatal Marriage) by Thomas Southerne (1660- 
1746). 

DREAM-CHILDREN: A REVERIE 

208, 1. The London Magazine, January, 1822. This essay 
was written a short while after the death of the author's 
brother and reflects, in its pathetic seriousness, the grief 
resulting from that event. (For a characterization of the 
brother see My Relations.) 

2. Great grandmother Field — house in Norfolk. See note 
37, 1, The South-Sea House. 

3. The ballad of the Children in the Wood. The ballad 
may be found in Percy's ReUques and Child's English and 



NOTES 565 

Scottish Popular Ballads. The story was dramatized by 
Thomas Morton (1764-1838). 

210, 1. Twelve Caesars. The first twelve emperors of Rome 
were all entitled Caesar in compliment to Julius Csesar. After 
the death of Domitian, in 96 A. D., the title was dropped. 

213, 1. I courted the fair Alice W— n. See note 76, 2, 
'NeiD Year's Eve. 

2. Lethe. One of the rivers of the infernal regions, of 
which the souls of the departed are obliged to drink to pro- 
duce oblivion or forgetfulness of what they did or knew on 
the earth. (See classical dictionary.) 

DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS 

214, 1. The London Magazine, March, 1822. 

2. B. F. Barrow Field. (Lamb's note.) 

3. Mrs. Howe (1674-1737), an English poet; best known 
for her Poems on several occasions hy Philomela. 

4. Alcander to Strephon. Alcander, a young Spartan who 
was an intimate friend of the orator Lycurgus. Strephon. 
A character in Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia. (See note 37, 
6, The 8outh-8ea House. 

215, 1. Munden. Joseph Shepherd Munden (1758-1832), 
an English actor. (See essay On the Acting of Munden.) 

218, 1. Lord C. Lord Camelford. (Lamb's note.) 

219, 1. Saint Grothard. Saint Godehardus, bishop of Hil- 
desheim, Germany, in the eleventh century. 

2. Melior lutus. Finer clay. 

3. Sol pater. Sun father. 

220, 1. Peter Wilkin's island. See note 59, 2, Christ's Eos'- 
pital Five and Thirty Years Ago. 

2. Diogenes (412-323), a celebrated Greek philosopher. 
According to legend, he once went about the streets of Corinth 
with a lantern in the day time, and when asked why he did 
so, replied that he was searching for an honest man. 

3. Sydneyites. Sydney, a sea-port in New South Wales, 
Australia, was settled in 1788 as a convict colony; hence the 
term " Sydneyites." 

221, 1. Delphic voyages. Voyages to Delphi, Greece, the 
seat of the oracle of the Pythian Apollo. (See classical dic- 
tionary.) 

222, 1. Ay me! while thee the seas, etc. Quoted from 
Milton's Comus, 11. 154-155. 

2. Miss W — r. Miss Winter. (Lamb's note.) 

3. J. W. James White. (Lamlj's note.) 



566 NOTES 



THE PRAISE OE CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 

222, 4. The London Magazine, May, 1822. Lamb gave this 
essay the sub-title, A May-Day Effusion. 

223, 1. Fauces Averni. The jaws of Averntis, the en- 
trance to the infernal regions. (See classical dictionary.) 

2. Stage direction in Macbeth. See Macbeth, Act IV, Sc. I. 

224, 1. The only Salopian house. Saloop, an infusion of 
sassafras-chips or similar aromatic herbs, flavored with sugar 
and milk, formerly much used as a beverage. 

227, 1. Hogarth. William Hogarth (1697-1764), a noted 
English painter and engraver. (See essay On the Genius and 
Character of Hogarth.) 

228, 1. A sable cloud, etc. From Milton's Comus, 11. 221- 
222. 

2. Noble Rachels mourning for their children. See Jer- 
emiah, XXXI, 15; also Matthew, II, 17-18. 

3. Young Montagu. It is said that a member of the 
noted Montagu family once ran away when a youth and be- 
came a chimney-sweep. 

4. Arundel Castle. A mansion on the Strand in London. 

229, 1. Venus lulled Ascanius. Venus, the goddess of love 
and beauty, lulled Ascanius, a son of ^neas, asleep and 
sent Cupid to assume his place. (See Virgil's ^neid, Bk. 
I, 11. 643-722.) 

230, 1. Fair of St. Bartholomew. A fair formerly held 
in London on St. Bartholomew's day (August 24). It began 
in 1133 and lasted until 1855. At first it was a great cloth 
market, but gradually changed from a place of business to 
one of pleasure. 

231, 1. Rochester in his maddest days. John Wilmot, 
Earl of Rochester (1647-1680), an English poet and courtier 
at the court of Charles II. He was noted for his escapades. 

232, 1. "Cloth." Clergy. 

2. Golden lads and lasses must, etc. Quoted from Shake- 
speare's Cymheline, Act IV, Sc. II, 11. 263-264. 

3. James White is extinct. James White, a close friend 
of Lamb and an author of some repute, died in 1820. 

A COMPLAINT ON THE DECAY OF BEGGARS IN THE 

METROPOLIS 

233, 1. The London Magazine, June, 1822. 

2. Alcides's club. Alcides, a name occasionally applied to 
Hercules, the most celebrated of all mythological heroes. 



NOTES 567 

234, 1. Dionysius (395-343? B. C), surnanied "the 
Younger." He was tyrant of Syracuse from which position 
he was twice expelled. 

2. Vandyke. See note 88, 1, Mrs. Battle's Opiniom on 
Whis't. 

3. Belisarius (505-565), the greatest general of the By- 
zantine Empire. A legend, which has no foundation in fact, 
has it that in old age he became blind and had to beg for a 
living. 

4. The Blind Beggar. The legend may be found in Percy's 
Beliques of Ancient Romance Poetry. 

235, 1. Lear, thrown from his palace. See Shakespeare's 
King Lear. 

2. Cresseid. A character in literature famous for her 
faithlessness. 

3. Lucian wits. Lucian, a Greek writer of the second 
century ; best known for his " Dialogues of the Gods " and 
" Dialogues of the -Dead." He may be regarded as the fore- 
runner of Swift. ( See note 200, 1, Grace Before Meat.) 

4. Semiramis. The Assyrian queen who founded Babylon; 
noted for her wisdom and beauty. 

5. King Cophetua. A legendary African king who married 
Penelophon, a beggar maid. A ballad describing his wooing 
and marriage may be found in Percy's Reliques of Ancient 
Romance Poetry. 

237, 1. Blind Tobits. The Book of Tobit is a romance, 
one of the apocryphal books of the Old Testament. In Chap. 
XI, 10, occur these words: " x\nd his father that was blind, 
rising up, began to run stumbling with his feet; and giving 
a servant his hand, went to meet his son." 

238, 1. Vincent Bourne (1695-1747), an English writer of 
Latin verse. 

240, 1. Antaeus. In classical mythology, a wrestler, who 
so long as he remained in contact with the earth was invincible. 
He was slain by Hercules. 

2. Elgin marble. The Elgin marbles are a collection of 
the statues made by Phidias (500?-430? B. C), a noted 
Greek sculptor, which Avere brought to England by Lord Elgin. 

241, 1. Hercules. See note 233, 2, above. 

2. Man — part of a Centaur. The Centaurs were a myth- 
ological race represented as in form half men and half 
horses. The most famous legend connected with them is the 
one telling of their battle with the Lapithse, which followed 



568 NOTES 

an insult offered by one of their number and in which they 
were defeated. (See classical dictionary.) 

3, Os sublime. Upward-looking face. 

4. Lusus (not Naturae, indeed, but) Accidentium. Freak 
(not of Nature, indeed, but) of Accident. 

242, 1. A Yorick. A jester. (See Shakespeare's Hamlet, 
Act V, Sc. I; also note 155, 1, My Relations.) 

243, 1. Blind Bartimeus. See Mark, X, 46. 

A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 

244, 1. The London Magazine, September, 1822. 

2. Chinese manuscript. There is, of course, no such manu- 
script. 

3. M. Thomas Manning, who at one time traveled in 
China. He and Lamb were close friends. 

4. Great Confucius. The celebrated Chinese philosopher 
and teacher (550-478 B. C). 

249, 1. Our Locke. See note 33, 1, The South-Sea House. 

2. Mundus edibilis. Edible world. 

3. Princeps absoniorum. Prince of viands. 

250, 1. Amor immunditias. Love of the impure, 

251, 1. Ere sin could blight, etc. Quoted from Coleridge's 
Epitaph on an Infant, 11. 1-2. 

254, 1. St. Omer's. A Catholic school for English students 
at St. Omer, France. Lamb never attended it. 

2. Per flagellationem extremam. With the severest punish- 
ment. 

A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT OF THE BEHAVIOR OF 
MARRIED PEOPLE 

255, 1. The London Magazine, September, 1822. 

258, 1. Phoenixes. Phoenix or phenix, a bird fabled to 
exist single, and to rise again from its own ashes. (See 
classical dictionary. ) 

259, 1. Love me, love my dog. See essay XII, Popular 
Fallacies. 

ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS 

265, 1. This essay was one of three articles published under 
the title of The Old Actors in the London Magazine in 1822 
and 1823. Wlien the first series of the Essays' of Elia was 
collected and issued in book form, these articles were revised 
and printed under separate titles : On Some of the Old Actors, 



NOTES 569 

On the Artificial Comedy of the Last Century, and On the 
Acting of Munden. 

2. Twelfth Night. To appreciate Lamb's criticism the 
reader must be familiar with Shakespeare's Ticelfth Night. 

3. Mr. Barrymore. Spranger Barry (1719-1777), an Irish 
actor, who was especially effective in tragedy. 

266,1. Mrs. Jordan. Dorothy Bland (1762-1816), an Irish 
actress. Comedy was her forte. 

2. Nells and Hoydens. Nell, a meek character in The 
Devil to Pay, by C. Coffey. Hoyden, a lively character in 
2^he Relapse, by John Vanbrugh. 

3. Write loyal cantos of contemned love, etc. From 
Tioelfth Night, Act I, Sc. V, 11. 291-292. 

267, 1. Bensley. Robert Bensley (1738-1817), an English 
actor. 

268, 1. Hotspur's famous rant about glory. See Shake- 
speare's / Henry IV, Act I, Sc. Ill, beginning with 1. 201. 

2. Venetian incendiary. A reference to the tragedy Venice 
Preserved by Thomas Otway (1652-1685), an English play- 
wright. 

269, 1. John Kemble. See note 138, 2, Imperfect Sym- 
pathies. 

271, 1. Castilian. Pertaining to the province of Castile, 
Spain, whose inhabitants were at one time very conspicuous 
in the eyes of the world. 

272, 1. The hero of La Mancha. Don Quixote. (See note 
105, 3, All Fool's Day.) 

2. Hyperion. In classical mythology, the original sun- 
god. He was overthrown by Apollo. 

273, 1. Dodd. James William Dodd (1740-1796), an Eng- 
lish actor who played the part of Aguecheek (Twelfth Night) 
with great success. 

2. In puris naturalibus. In a pure and natural state. 

274, 1. Bacon. Francis Bacon (1561-1626), a celebrated 
English philosopher, statesman, and writer. He is best known 
as an author for his Essays and The Advancement of Learning.. 

275, 1. Foppington. A vain character in Vanbrugh's The 
Relapse. Tattle. A bragging but cowardly character in Con- 
greve's Love for Love. Backbite. A conceited character in 
Sheridan's A School for Scandal. Acres. Bob Acres, a ridic- 
ulous character in Sheridan's The Rivals. Fribble. A shal- 
low, worthless character in Garrick's Miss in her Teens. 

276, 1. "Put on the weeds of Dominic." The dress of 
the order of monks founded by St. Dominic. The phrase is 



570 NOTES 

adapted from Milton. (See Paradise Lost, Bk. Ill, 1. 473.) 
2. Like Sir John. Sir John Falstaff. 

For my voice, I have lost it with 
Halloing and singing of anthems. 
Shakespeare's // Henry IV, Act I, Sc. II, 11. 213-214. 

277, 1. Robin Good-Fellow. A playful, mischievous elf in 
folk lore. Commonly known as Puck. 

2. Puck. See note 20, above. 

278, 1. Force of nature could no further go. From Dry- 
den. 

The force of nature could no further go; 

To make a third, she joined the former two. 

Under the Portrait of John Milton, 11. 5-6. 

2. Thorough brake, thorough briar. Adapted from Shake- 
speare. 

Thorough bush, thorough brier 

Over park, over pale 
Thorough flood, thorough fire 
I do wander everywhere. 
A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act II, Sc. I, 11. 3-6. 

3. Jack Bannister (1760-1836), a celebrated English 
comedian. 

279, 1. Children in the Wood. A comedy by Thomas Mor- 
ton (1764-1838). 

2. Vesta's days. Vesta, goddess of the hearth. 

3. Elder Palmer. John Palmer (1747-1798), an English 
actor. 

280, 1. Bobby in the Duke's Servant. A character in 
High Life Beloio Stairs by Townley, an English dramatist. 

2. Captain Absolute. A character in Sheridan's The Rivals. 

3. Dick Amulet. A character in Vanbrugh's comedy, The 
Confederacy. 

4. Wilding. Jack Wilding, a character noted for his many 
falsehoods in The Liar, a farce by Samuel Foote (1720- 
1777). It is an adaptation of Corneille's Le Menteur. 

5. Joseph Surface. A character in Sheridan's School for 
Scandal. 

281, 1. Sir Sampson. Thou hast been many a weary 
league, etc. Quoted from Congreve's Love for Love. 

282, 1. Wapping sailor. Wapping, a part of London on 
the north bank of the Thames below the Tower. 



NOTES 571 

ON THE ARTIFICIAL COMEDY OF THE LAST CENTURY 
282, 2. See note 265, 1, On Some of the Old Actors. 
3 Farquhar. George Farquhar (1678-1707), an English 

dramatist, author of The Beaux' Stratagem, The Tictn Rivals, 

etc. 

284 1 Ulysses to descend twice to the shades. In the 

eleventh book of the Odyssey, Ulysses narrates his experiences 
with the shades of the lower world. 

2. Alsatia. A name applied to a part of London once 
noted for its lawlessness. /-.^.n 

285, 1. Wycherley's comedies. William Wycherley (1640- 
1715)', an English dramatist, author of The Plain Dealer, 
The Country Wife, Love in a Wood, etc. ^ 

2. Catos of the pit. The critics. Marcus Porcms Cato 
(234-149 B. C), a Roman statesman, general, and winter. 

3. Swedenborgian. Emanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772), a 

celelDrated Swedish philosopher. ^ , m x, 

4 The Fainalls — Mirabels — Dorimants — Lady Touch- 
woods. Characters found in the dramas of Congreve and 

287, 1. Sir Simon,— Dapperwit — Miss Martha — Lord 

Proth Sir Paul Pliant. Characters found in the dramas of 

Congreve and Wycherley. 

288, 1. Don Quixote. See note 105, 3, All Fools' Day. 

2. Atlantis. A mythical island north-west of Africa, re- 
ferred to by Plato and other ancient writers. 

3. School for Scandal. See note 67, 2, The Tioo Races of 

Men. 

290, 1. Teazle King. A reference to the character. Sir 
Peter 'Teazle, in Sheridan's School for Scandal. 

292, 1. Saturnalia. Festivals held in honor of Saturn 
about the middle of December; principally famous for the 
riotous disorder which attended them. 

ON THE ACTING OF MUNDEN 
294, 1. See note 265, 1, Some of the Old Actors. Joseph 
Shepherd Munden (1758-1832), an English comedian, to whom 
Lamb attributed " half the world's fun." 

2. Cockletop. A character in Modern Antiques, a comedy 
by John O'Keefe (1747-1833), an Irish dramatist. 

3. There the antic sate, etc. Adapted from Shakespeare. 

And there the antic sits 
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp. 

King Richard II, Act III, Sc. 11. 



572 NOTES 

295, 1. Farley. Charles Farley (1771-1859), an English 
actor and dramatist. 

2. Liston. John Liston (1776-1846), a celebrated London 
comedian. 

3. Hydra. See note 149, 1, Witches and Other 'Slight-Fears. 

296, 1. Sessa. A word used by Shakespeare with uncertain 
meaning. 

Let the world slide, sess'a! 
The Taming of the Shrew, Introd. Sc. I, 11. 5-6. 

2. Cassiopeia's chair. A constellation of the northern 
hemisphere; named in honor of Cassiopeia, an Ethiopian 
queen. (See classical dictionary.) 

297, 1. Fuseli. John Henry Fuseli (1741-1825), a Swiss- 
English art critic and painter. 



I4AST ESSAYS OF ELIA 
PREFACE 

301, 1. This essay was first published in the London Mag- 
azine January, 1823, under the title A Character of the 
I,ate Elia, and probably was intended to announce to the 
public the withdrawal of the writer from the field of essay 
writing. It was used as a preface to the Last Essays of 
Elia, which were collected in 1833. 

303, 1. Intimados. Intimate associates. 

304, 1. Indian weed. Tobacco, so called because first 
found in America. Lamb smoked excessively. 

2. Shacklewell. See note 27, 5, The South-Sea House. 

305, 1. Toga virilis. The manly toga. The dress assumed 
by Roman boys when about fifteen years of age. 

BLAKE SMOOR IN H— SHIRE 
305, 2. The London Magazine, September, 1824. The man- 
sion referred to is Blakesware situated in Hertfordshire, the 
old home of the Plumer family. (See note 37, 1*, The South- 
Sea House.) 

307, 1. Cowley. Abraham Cowley (1618-1667), an Eng- 
lish poet in whose writings Lamb was deeply interested. 

2. Ovid. See note 130, 1, Valentine's Day. 

3. Actaeon in mid sprout . . . prudery of Diana. 
Actseon, while hunting, came upon Diana bathing, and was 



NOTES 573 

changed to a stag by the angry goddess. (See note 81, 1, New 
Year's Eve, also classical dictionary.) 

4. Dan Cupid . . . divesting of Marsyas. See note 
40/7, Oxford in the Vacation. , , ^ • • 

308, 1. Old Mrs. Battle died. See Mrs. Battle's Opinions 

on Whist. , . , 

2. Lacus Incognitus. An unknown lake 

309 1 Bind me, ye woodbines, etc. Quoted from Marve 1 
on Appleton House, to the Lord Fairfax." (Lamb's note.) 
See note 177, 2, The Old Benchers of the Inner lemple 

2 Mowbray's or De Clifford's pedigree. Thomas Movybray, 
Duke of Norfolk, an important character in the time of Richard 
II Richard De Clifford. The progenitor of the great Cliflord 
family, best known through Rosamond, who was mistress ot 

Henry II. , „ . • 

310, L " Resurgam." I shall rise again. 

2 Damoetas. A shepherd in Virgil's Eclogue, Bk. 111. 
3' Aegon. Also a shepherd in Virgil's Eclogue, Blc- ill. 

311, 1 Twelve Caesars. See note 210, 1, Dream Children: 

^ 2^^Teri. See note 52, 3, Chrisfs Hospital Five and Thirty 

^Toa^lba. Servius Sulpicius Galba (24 B. C^69 A D.) a 
Roman emperor, one of the Twelve C^sars. He had ruled 
Rome for a few months only when he was assassinated. 

312 1 Pan or to Sylvanus. In Greek mythology, Pan was 
the god of pastures, flocks, and forests and dwelt in Arcadia. 
Sylvanus. The Roman god corresponding to Pan. 

POOR RELATIONS 

313, 1. The London Magazine May, 1823 ^ 

2. Agathocles' pot. Agathocles (361-289 B. C), a rmer 

of Syracuse was originally a potter. ^^j .i,^ nirl Tpsta- 

3. Mordecai in your gate. A character of the Old Testa 
ment associated with Esther, -(^ee Esther \, 13-) 

A -Lazarus at vour door. See Lwfce's Gospel XVI, 19-21. 
3i6 r AUquando sufflaminandus erat. It was necessary 

^'^2'^"Rictr7Tmle^"Esa. A riotous character in Van- 

brush's comedy, The Confederacy. 

317 1 Poor W— . Favell. (Lamb's note.) 

2 Nessian venom. In Greek mythology, Nessug a centaur 

was slain by Hercules with a poisoned, arrow, When later 



574 NOTES 

Hercules' wife steeped one of his garments in some of the 
centaur's blood, he was fatally poisoned. 

3. Latimer. Hugh Latimer (1485-1555), a celebrated Eng- 
lish reformer who was burned at Oxford. 

4. Hooker. Richard Hooker (1553-1600). (See note 64, 
4, Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago). 

319, 1. Artist Evangelist. Saint Luke, patron saint of 
artists. 

2. St. Sebastian. A sea-port in northern Spain noted as 
a watering place. Captured by Wellington in 1813. 

320, 1. Mint. The Royal Mint built in 1811. 

321, 1. Grotiuses. Hugo Grotius (1583-1645), a Dutch 
jurist; author of De Jure Belli et Pads. 

DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND READING 

323, 1. The London Magazine, July, 1822. 

2. To mind the inside of a book, etc. Quoted from The 
Relapse. (See note 262, 2, On Some of the Old Actors.) 

3. Shaftesbury. Anthony Ashley Cooper, third earl of 
Shaftesbury (1671-1713), author of Cha7ricteris'tics of Men, 
Manners, Opinions, and Times. 

4. Jonathan Wild. A novel of Henry Fielding (1707- 
1754), the chief character of which is portrayed as a man 
wholly devoid of principle. 

5. Hume. David Hume (1711-1776), author of the History 
of England. Gibbon. Edward Gibbon (1737-1794), author 
of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Robertson. 
William Robertson (1721-1793), author of the History of 
Scotland. Beattie. James Beattie (1735-1803), a Scotch es- 
sayist. Soame Jengns (1704-1787), an English writer. 

324, 1. Flavius Josephus (37-95), a noted Jewish his- 
torian; author of Wars of the Jeics and Antiquities' of the 
Jews. 

2. Paley's Moral Philosophy. William Paley (1743-1805), 
an English writer on theology and philosophy. 

3. Steele. Richard Steele. . (See note 67, 2, The Two 
Races of Men.) FarQ[uhar. George Farquhar. (See note 282, 
3, On the Artificial Comedy of the Last Century). Adam 
Smith (1723-1790), a Scotch political economist; author of 
The Wealth of Nations. 

4. Paracelsus. Philippus Paracelsus (1493-1541), a Swiss 
alchemist. 

5. Raymund LuUy (1235-1315), a Spanish alchemist. 



NOTES 575 

325, 1. Thomson's Seasons. See note 137, 1, Imperfect 
Sympathies'. 

2. Fielding. See note 323, 4, above. Smollet. See note 
137, 2, Imperfect Sympathies. Sterne. See note 155, 1, 
My Relations. 

3. We know not where is that Promethean torch, etc. 
Adapted from Shakespeare. 

I know not where is that Promethean heat 
That can thy light relume. 

Othello, Act V, Sc. II, 11. '12-13. 

326, 1. Life of the Duke of Newcastle, by his Duchess. 

See note 73, 3, The Tivo Races of Men. 

2. Howe and Tonson, English authors and booksellers who 
brought out an edition of Shakespeare's Works in 1709. 

3. Beaumont and Fletcher. Francis Beaumont (1584- 
1616), and John Fletcher (1579-1625), two noted English 
dramatists who wrote plays together; authors of Philaster, A 
King and No King, The Maid's Tragedy, etc. 

327, 1. Malone. Edmund Malone (1741-1812), a noted 
Shakespearean scholar and critic. 

2. Kit Marlowe. Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593), the 
English dramatist ranking next to Shakespeare; author of 
The Jeic of Malta, Edioard II, Doctor Faustus, etc. William 
Drummond (1585-1649), an English poet. Abraham Cowley 
(1618-1667), an English poet and essayist. 

328, 1. Bishop Andrewes' sermons. Launcelot Andrews 
(1555-1626), a noted English theologian. 

2. Pro bono publico. For the public good. 

329, 1. Nando's. A coffee-house in London. 

2. Poor Tobin. John Tobin (1770-1804), an English dram- 
atist. 

3. Candide. A story by Voltaire (1694-1778). 

4. Primrose Hill. A hill northwest of London. 

5. Cythera. An island in the ^Egean Sea sacred to Venus. 

6. Pamela. One of the earliest English novels, by Samuel 
Eichardson (1689-1761). 

330, 1. Lardner. Nathaniel Lardner (1684-1768), an Eng- 
lish theologian. 

331, 1. Martin B — . Martin Burney. (Lamb's note.) 

2. Clarissa. Clarissa Harloioe, a novel in the form of let- 
ters by Richardson. ( See note 329, 6 , above. ) 

3. A quaint poetess of our day. Mary Lamb. 



576 NOTES 



STAGE ILLUSION 

332, 1. The London Magazine, August, 1825. This essay 
was first published under the title of Imperfect Dramatic 
Illusion. 

333, 1. Jack Bannister's cowards. See note 278, 3, On 
Some of the Old Actors. 

335, 1. Osric. A character in Hamlet styled a courtier by 
Shakespeare. 

TO THE SHADE OF ELLISTON 

337, 1. The Englishman's Magazine, August, 1831. 

2. Avernus. See note 223, 1, The Praise of Chimney- 
Sweepers!. 

3. Elysian streams. Elysium, the abode of the just after 

death. 

4. Platonist. Disciple of Plato. (See note 46, 5, Oxford 
in the Vacation. 

5. Tartarus. See note 61, 2, Christ's Hospital Five-and 
Thirty Years Ago. 

338, 1. Limbo. A region bordering on hell. 

2. Up thither like aerial vapors fly, etc. See Milton's Par- 
adise Lost, Bk. Ill, 11. 348, seq. 

3. Crazy Stygian wherry. A reference to the boat rowed 
by Charon on the river Styx in the infernal regions. (See 
classical dictionary.) 

339, 1. Pluto's kingdom. See note 113, 2, A Quakers 

Meeting. 

2. Surly Ferryman. See note 338, 3, above. 

3. A la Foppington. See note 275, 1 , On Some of the Old 

4. Thracian Harper. Orpheus, who was permitted to enter 
the" lower world to plead for Eurydice. 

5. Pura et puta anima. A pure and clean soul. 

340, 1. Rhadamanthus. A judge of the dead in the in- 
fernal regions. 

2. Medusean ringlets. Medusa, a Gorgon had writhmg 
serpents upon her head in the place of hair. (See note 149, 
1, Witches, and Other Night-Fears. 

3. Proserpine. See note 113, 2, A Quaker's Meeting. 

4. Plaudito, et Valeto. Applaud, and say farewell. 



i 



NOTES 577 



ELLISTONIANA 

340, 5. The Englishman's Magazine, August, 1831. 

341, 1. Lovelace. A character in Three Weeks after Mar- 
riage, a comedy by Arthur Murphy (1727-1805), an English 
dramatist. 

342, 1, Appelles. A celebrated Greek artist of the time 
of Alexander the Great. (See note 104, 1, All Fools' Day.) 

2. G. D. George Dyer. (Lamb's note.) 

343, 1. Ranger. A character in The Suspicious Hushand, 
a comedy by Benjamin Hoadly (1706-1757). 

344, 1. Gibber. Colley Gibber (1671-1757), an English 
dramatist and actor. 

345, 1. Consular exile. Caius Marius (155-86 B. C.), 
Sulla's rival. He was exiled from Rome in 88 B. C. 

2. More illustrious exile. Napoleon Bonaparte (1769- 
1821), who when exiled the first time, was given the island 
of Elba to govern. 

3. Small Olympic, A theater in London where plays of 
a light nature were offered. 

4. Sir A. — C — . Sir Anthony Carlisle. (Lamb's note.) 

346, 1. Vestris. Madame Vestris, an actress at Drury 
Lane Theater. 

347, 1. A fortiori. By the stronger. 

2. The son of Peleus uses to Lycaon. Achilles, the son 
of Peleus slew Lycaon, son of Priam before the walls of Troy. 

3. Surrey Theater. A London theater where plays of a 
light, rollicking nature were staged. 

348, 1. Pious Colet. See note 119, 4, The Old and the 
NeW' Schoolmaster. 

THE OLD MARGATE HOY 

348, 2. The London Magazine, July, 1823. Margate is a 
sea-port in Kent, England, on the Isle of Thanet. Hoy is a 
small coasting vessel. 

349, 1. Fire-god parching up Scamander. Scamander, a 
river in Asia Minor. For the reference see Pope's Homer's 
Iliad, Bk. XXI, 342 seq. 

350, 1. Ariel. A character in Shakespeare's Tempest. The 
reference here is to Act I, Sc. II, 11. 196-199. 

2. Azores. A group of islands northwest of Africa. 

351, 1. Genius Loci. The spirit of the place. 

352, 1. Colossus at Rhodes. A giant statue of Apollo at 
Rhodes. (See classical dictionary.) 



578 NOTES 

353, 1. Reculvers. Two towers, the remnant of a ruined 
monastery, near the mouth of the Thames. 

355, 1. Orellana. The name by which the Amazon River 
was originally known. 

2. For many a day, and many a dreadful night, etc. 
Quoted from Thomson's Seasons, 11. 1002-1003. 

3. " Still-vexed Bermoothes." From Shakespeare. 

Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew 
From the still-veoo'd Bermoothes. 

Tempest, Act I, Sc. II, 11. 228-229. 

356, 1. Be but as buggs to frighten babes withal, etc. 
An inaccurate quotation from Spenser. 

Be but as bugs to fearen babes withall, 
Compared to the creatures in the seas enthrall. 

Fairie Queen, Bk. II, Canto XII, Stanza 25. 

2. Juan Fernandez, The island on which Alexander Sel- 
kirk (Robinson Crusoe) is reputed to have had his many 
adventures. 

3. Gebir. A poem by Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864), 
an English writer. 

357, 1. Amphitrites. In classical mythology the wife of 
Neptune. 

2. Meschek. See Psalms, CXX, 5. 

THE CONVALESCENT 

360, 1. The London Magazine, July, 1825. 

361, 1. Mare Clausum. Closed sea. 

2. Two Tables of the Law. The ten commandments. 

365, 1. Lernean pangs. Lerna, the mythological hiding- 
place of the Hydra which Hercules slew. The monster's 
blood was rank poison and Hercules dipped his arrows into it. 

2. Philoctetes. A friend of Hercules to whom the arrows 
were given after the hero's death. He accidentally wounded 
himself, but was relieved of his agony by the physician 
Machaon. 

366, 1. Articulo Mortis. At the point of death. 
2. Tityus. A mythological giant, son of Jupiter. 

SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS 
366, 3. The l^JeiD- Monthly Magazine, May, 1826. This es- 
say was originally included among the series under the title, 
Popular Fallacies. 



NOTES 579 

367, 1. Timon. A character in Shakespeare's Timon of 
Athens, noted for his hatred of his fellow-men. 

2. Kent. A character in Shakespeare's King Lear, noted 
for his faithfulness to his master. 

368, 1. Proteus. In classical mythology, a god of the sea 
who had the power of foresight. 

2. Caliban. A character in Shakespeare's Tempest, the 
son of a witch. 

369, 1. Wither. George Wither (1588-1667), an English 
poet. 

2. Lane's novels. Lane, a London publisher who issued 
many light works of fiction. 

370, 1. Mammon. See note 28, 4, The South-Sea House. 

2. Hesperian fruit. The golden apples given by Juno to 
Jupiter on the day of their marriage. 

3. Tantalus. A character in classical mythology who, hav- 
ing served his son's body for meats to the gods, was punished 
by being placed in the infernal regions in a pool of water 
from which he could not drink. (See classical dictionary.) 

4. Cyclops. In classical mythology, giants who aided 
Vulcan at the forge to make Jove's thunderbolts. 

CAPTAIN JACKSON 

371, 1. The London Magazine, November, 1824. 

372, 1. Althea's horn. Amalthea, the goat by which Jupi- 
ter was nursed when an infant; her horn was known as the 
cornucopia or Horn of Plenty. ( See classical dictionary. ) 

2. Master Shallow. A weak minded character in Shake- 
speare's // King Henry IV. Designated as a country justice. 

373, 1. Vere hospitihus sacra. In truth, sacred to guests. 
2. Bacchanalian encouragements. In classical mythology, 

Bacchus was the god of wine. 

374, 1. Glover. Richard Glover (1712-1785), an English 
statesman, orator and writer. Among his works are Leonidas, 
Medea and Boadicea. 

376, 1. When we came down through Glasgow town, etc. 
One of the popular English ballads of which Lamb was very 
fond. 

377, 1. Tibbs and Bobadil. Tibbs, a character in A Citizen 
of the World, a comedy by Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774). 
Bobadil. A character in Every Man in his' own Humour, a 
comedy by Ben Jonson (1573-1637). 



580 NOTES 



THE SUPEEANNUATED MAN 
377, 2. The London Magazine, May, 1825. A superan- 
nuated man is a man who on account of old age has been 
retired on a pension. 

3. Sera tamen respexit Libertas. Though late, liberty at 
last considered me. Virgil's Eclogues. 

381, 1. Esto perpetua. May this be a lasting memorial. 

382, 1. Old Bastile. A famous state prison in Paris. It 
was captured and destroyed by the French Revolutionists. 

384, 1. 'Twas but just now he went away, etc. Quoted 
from the tragedy, The Vestal Virgin, Act V, Sc. I, by Sir 
Eobert Howard (1626-1698), an English dramatist closely as- 
sociated with John Dryden. 

385, 1. Aquinas. Thomas Aquinas (1225?-1274), a cele- 
brated Italian theologian and philosopher. 

2. Carthusian. See note 109, 1 , A Quaker's Meeting. 

386, 1. Elgin marbles. See note 240, 2, A Complaint of 
the Decay of Beggars in the Metroplis. 

387, 1. Lucretian pleasure. An allusion to the opening 
lines of De Rerum Natura, Bk. II, by Titus Lucretius Carus 
(96-55 B. C), a noted Roman philosopher and poet. 

2. Cum dignitate. With dignity. 

388, 1. Opus operatum est. The work is finished. 

THE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING 

388, 2. The New Monthly Magazine, March, 1826. 

3. Lord Shaftesbury. See note 323, 3, Detached Thoughts 
on Books and Beading. 

4. Sir William Temple (1629-1699), a noted English 
statesman and author. He was ambassador to the Hague 
from 1668 to 1671. 

389, 1. Maid Marian. Robin Hood's sweetheart in the old 
English ballads. 

392, 1. Me, when the cold Digentian stream revives, etc. 
Taken from Horace, Ep. I, 18, 11. 104-112. 

BARBARA S— 

395, 1. The London Magazine, April, 1825. Barbara S — 
was Fanny Kelly (1790-1882), a noted English actress with 
whom Lamb was well acquainted. 

2. Arthur. A character in Shakespeare's King John. 

396, 1. Duke of York. A character in Shakespeare's 
Richard III. 



N0TE8 581 

397, 1. Mrs. Porter's Isabella. See note 207, 1, My First 
Play. 

398, 1. Mr. Listen. See note 295, 2, On the Acting of 
Munden. 

2. Mrs. Charles Kemble. An English actress. 

3, Macready. William Charles Macready (1793-1873), a 
celebrated English tragedian. He was especially strong in 
Shakespearian roles. 

THE TOMBS IN THE ABBEY 
402, 1. The London Magazine, October, 1823. In connec- 
tion with this essay read Washington Irving's Westminister 
Abhey in the Sketch Book. 

2. R — S — , Esq. Robert Southey. (Lamb's note.) 

405, 1. Nelson. Horatio Nelson (1758-1805), the most 
noted of England's admirals. He defeated the combined 
French and Spanish fleets at Cape Trafalgar, but was fatally 
wounded in the battle. (See Southey's Life of 'Nelson.) 

2. Shame these Sellers out of the Temple. A reference 
to the expulsion of the money changers from the temple at 
Jerusalem by the Christ. (See Matthew XXI, 12-13.) 

406, 1. Major Andre. John Andre (1751-1780), an Eng- 
lish officer in the American Revolution who was executed as 
a spy. 

AMICUS REDIVIVUS 

406, 2. The London Magazine, December, 1823. 

3. Where were ye. Nymphs, etc. Quoted from Milton's 
Lycidas, 11. 50-51. 

4. G. D. George Dyer, a close friend of Lamb. 

407, 1. Who bore Anchises. The Trojan hero, ^neas, car- 
ried his father, Anchises, out of Troy when that city was 
destroyed by the Greeks. 

408, 1. Monoculus. Note Lamb's humor in the choice of 
this name which means having one eye only. 

2. Cannabis. Hemp. Lamb has hanging in mind. 

410, 1. Tremor cordis. Trembling of the heart. 

2. Sir Hugh. A character in Shakespeare's Merry Wives 
of Windsor. 

411, 1. Abyssinian traveler. James Bruce (1730-1794), 
a Scotch explorer who traveled extensively in north-east Af- 
rica. 

2. Naiads. Beautiful nymphs of human form who pre- 
sided over springs, fountains, and wells. 



582 NOTES 

3. Cam. See note 47, 1, Oxford in the Vacation. 

4. Aristotle (384-322 B. C), a celebrated Greek philoso- 
pher. According to legend he drowned himself in the strait 
of Eiiripus which separates the isle of Euboea from the main- 
land. 

412, 1. Clarence in his dream. See Shakespeare's Richard 
III, Act I, Sc. IV. 

2. Christian beginning to sink, and crying out to his 
good brother Hopeful. Seei Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, 
Part I. 

3. Palinurus. The pilot employed by ^neas, the hero of 
Virgil's ^neid. 

4. Charon. See note 338, 3, To the Shade of Elliston. 

5. Arion. A famous Greek poet who, according to legend, 
played so sweetly upon his harp that the dolphins of the 
sea flocked about to hear him. 

6. Dr. Hawes. The founder of the Royal Humane Society. 

7. Dismal streams of Lethe. Lethe, one of the rivers of 
the infernal regions, of which the souls of the departed drank 
to produce forgetfulness. (See classical dictionary.) 

8. Ophelia twice acts her muddy death. See Shake- 
speare's Hamlet, Act IV, Sc. VII, 11. 164-195. 

413, 1. Asphodel. The flower of Elysium. (See note 337, 
3, To the Shade of Elliston, also classical dictionary.) 

2. .ffisculapian chair, ^sculapius, the physician god. 

SOME SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 

413, 3. The London Magazine, September, 1823. Sir Philip 
Sydney (the name is commonly written Sidney) (1554- 
1686), a celebrated writer, soldier and courtier. He is best 
known for his romance Arcadia. 

414, 1. Masque at Ludlow Castle. Comus, a masque by 
Milton which was presented at Ludlow Castle, Wales, in 1634. 

2. A later Sydney. Algernon Philip Sydney (1622-1683), 
an English patriot. He was executed for complicity in the 
Eye JHouse Plot. 

3. Circum prsecordia frigus. Chill about the heart. 

415, 1. Tibullus. Albius Tibullus (54-18 B. C), a Roman 
elegiac poet. 

2. Author of the Schoolmistress. William Shenstone 
(1714-1763), an English poet. 

3. Ad Leonoram. To Leonora. 

416, 1. Dian. Diana. See note 81, 1, l^eio Year's Eve. 

417, 1. Stella's image. Stella, Lady Penelope Devereaux, 



NOTES 583 

daughter of the Earl of Essex. Sydney loved her and after 
her marriage was inconsolable, giving expression to his grief 
in the sonnets of Astrophel and Stella. 

418, 1. Mars' livery. Mars, god of war. (See classical 
dictionary. ) 

419, 1. Aganippe well. A companion-fountain to Hip- 
pocrene on the slope of Helicon, Greece, sacred to the Muses. 

2. Tempe. A valley in Greece, noted for its beauty. 

420, 1. Floure-de-luce. The lily; the national flower of 
France. The word is usually written fleur-de-lis. 

2. Lewis. Louis XI (1754-1793), King of France. 

421, 1. ^ol's youth, ^olus, god of the winds. 

2. Parnassus. See note 46, 4, Oxford in the Vacation. 

422, 1. W. H. William Hazlitt (1778-1830), an English 
essayist and critic; author of Table Talk, Characters of 
Shakespeare's Plays, etc. He and Lamb were well acquainted. 

423, 1. Friend's Passion for his Astrophel. An elegy by 
Spenser on the death of Sydney. 

NEWSPAPERS THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO 

425, 1. The Englishman's Magazine, October, 1831. This 
essay was first published under the title On the Total Defect 
of the Quality of Imagination, Observable in the Works of 
Modern British Artists. 

2. Abyssinian Pilgrim. See note 411, 1, Amicus Redi- 
vivus. 

426, 1. Gnat which preluded to the jffineid. Culex or the 
Gnat, a poem long attributed to Virgil. 

2. Duck which Samuel Johnson trod on. Dr. Johnson is 
reputed to have written the following stanza when but three 
years of age: 

Here lies good master duck 

Whom Samuel Johnson trod on; 

If it had lived it had been good luck. 
For then we'd had an odd one. 

427, 1. Flower of Cytherea. The red rose which was 
sacred to the goddess Venus. 

2. Autolycus-like in the Play. See Shakespeare's The 
Winter's Tale, Act IV, Sc. IV. 

3. Flight of Astrsea. Astrsea, mother of Nemesis, was the 
goddess of justice; she returned to heaven when the earth 
became corrupt. 



584 NOTES 

4. Ultima Cselestune terras reliquit. She was the last of 
the celestials to leave the earth. 

428, 1. No Man's Land. A name formerly applied to a 
district in south Africa; also the name of a small island off 
the coast of Massachusetts. 

429, 1. Aquarius, that watery sign. Aquarius, the water 
bearer, one of the signs of the zodiac. 

2. Bacchus. The god of wine. 

3. Basilian water-sponges. Basilian, an island of the 
Sulu Archipelago south east of Asia, noted for its sponges. 

4. Mount Agne. A volcano in Central America which 
discharges water. 

5. Capulets. A family in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet 
at strife with the Montagues. 

430, 1. Revocare gradus, superasque evadere ad auras. 
Quoted from Virgil. 

To retrace one's steps, and to escape to the air above. 

^neid, Bk. VI, 1. 128. 

2. When the mountain must go to Mahomet. Mahomet, 
to convince some of his followers of his supernatural powers, 
once ordered Mount Safa to come to him. (See Brewer's 
Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.) 

3. Like him in Bel's temple. Bel, one of the most im- 
portant of the Babylonian gods. (See Isaiah XLVI, 1 and 
Jeremiah, L. 2.) 

434, 1. Mr. Bayes. See note 185, 4, The Old Benchers of 
the Inner Temple. 

435. 1. Sir J — s M — h. Sir James Macintosh. (Lamb's 
note. ) 

BARRENNESS OF THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY IN 
THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN ART 

435, 2. The Athenwum, January and February, 1833. This 
essay was originally divided into two parts. 

436, 1. Ariadne. A celebrated painting by Titian ( 1477 ?- 
1576), a great Venetian artist, portraying the wooing of 
Ariadne, the daughter of the King of Crete by Bacchus, 
after Theseus had deserted her. 

2. Satyr. A spirit of the woodland, half man and half 
goat; an attendant of Bacchus. 

3. Guido. Guido Reni (1575-1042), a noted Italian 
painter belonging to the Bolognese school. 

4. Theseus. One of the most famous of the Greek heroes. 



NOTES 585 

Ho was rescued from the labyrinth by Ariadne, who fled with 
him only to be deserted. (See note 436, 1, above.) 

437, 1. Raphael. See note 159, 3, My Relations. 

438, 1. Gardens of the Hesperides. The abiding place of 
the Hesperides located on an island in the Atlantic. (See 
note 370, 2, Sanity of True Genius.) 

2. Polypheme. A one-eyed giant, the chief of the Cyclopes. 
(See note 370, 4, Sanity of True Genius.) 

3. Poussin. Nicolas Poussin (1594-1665), a French his- 
torical and landscape painter. 

439, 1. Hercules aut Diabolus. Hercules or the devil. 
(See note 233, 2, A Complaint on the Decay of Beggars in 
the Metropolis; also classical dictionary.) 

2. Ab extra. On the out-side. 

3. Fete champetre. A picnic or a country garden party. 

4. Watteauish. Jean Antoine Watteau (1684-1721), a 
French painter best knov/n for his pictures of country scenes. 

440, 1. Belshazzar's Feast. A painting by John Martin 
(1789-1854), an English historical painter. 

441, 1. Eliphaz. A character in the Book of Joh. Lamb 
refers to his vision as given in Joh IV, 13-15. 

442, 1. In the same hour came forth fingers, etc. Quoted 
from the Book of Daniel V, 5-6. 

443, 1. As Joseph did the dream of the King of Egypt. 
See Genesis XLI, 25-37. 

2; Veronese. Paul Veronese (1528-1588), a noted Italian 
painter. Among his masterpieces is his Marriage at Cana. 

445, 1. Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon, etc. Quoted 
from the Book of Joshua, X, 12. 

2. Angerstein's. John Julius Angerstein (1735-1823), an 
English art-collector. 

446, 1. Dryad. A rural deity or nymph of the forest. 

2. Naiad. See note 176, 1, The Old Benchers of the Inner 
Temple. 

3. Julio Romano (1492-1546), an Italian painter and ar- 
chitectj pupil of Raphsel. 

448, 1. Demiurgus. Creator; a name applied to a skilled 
workman. 

2. Vulcanian Three. Vulcan, whose forges were located 
under such volcanoes as Etna and Lemnos, was aided in his 
work by the Cyclops — Brontes, Steropes, and Pyracmon. ( See 
note 370, 4, Sanity of True Genius; also classical dictionary.) 

449, 1. auixote. (See note 105, 3, All Fools' Day.) 



586 NOTES 

2. Rosinante. Don Quixote's war-horse, (See note 1, 
above. ) 

3. Actaeon. See note 307, 3, Blakesmoor in E — shire. 

450, 1. Goneril — Regan. The unnatural daughters of 
Lear in Shakespeare's King Lear. 

451, 1. Guzman de Alfarache. A romance by Mateo Ale- 
man ( 1550?-1610?), a Spanish novelist. 

REJOICINa UPON THE NEW YEAR'S COMING OF AGE 

452, 1. The London Magazine, January, 1823. 
2. Ash Wednesday. The first day of Lent. 

453, 1. Shrove Tuesday. The day preceding Ash Wednes- 
day. 

2. Lady Day. The day of the annunciation of the Virgin 
Mary, March 25. 

3. Twelfth Day. The twelfth day after Christmas. (See 
note 41, 2, Oxford in the Vacation.) 

4. Erra Pater. An astrologer frequently mentioned in the 
literature of the Elizabethan period. 

455, 1. Herodias' daughter. See Matthew XIV, 3-11. 

456, 1. Candlemas. See 68, 1, The Two Races of Men. 

457, 1. Boutefeu. An incendiary. 

458, 1. Septuagesima. The third Sunday before Lent. 

2. Rogation Day. One of the days of Rogation Week 
which is the second week before Whit-Sunday. (See note 
114, 1, A Quaker's Meeting.) 

459, 1. Eve of St. Christopher. July 24; observed in 
honor of the saint, who according to tradition, once bore the 
Christ upon his shoulders. 

THE WEDDING 

460, 1. The London Magazine, June, 1825. 

461, 1. Admiral. Admiral Burney. (Lamb's note.) 
2. Cousin J — . John Payne. (Lamb's note.) 

463, 1. Diana's nymphs. Diana was usually attended by 
nymphs as she hunted in the forest. (See note 81, 1, 'New 
Year's Eve; also classical dictionary.) 

464, 1. Iphigenia. The daughter of Agamemnon, comman- 
der of the Greeks in their attack on Troy, who was sacrificed 
by her father to gain the favor of Diana. 

465, 1. Pilpay. An Indian wise man and court scholar. 



NOTES 587 



THE CHILD ANGEL 

467, 1. The London Magazine, June, 1823, 

468, 1. Loves of the Angels. A poem by Thomas Moore 
(1779-1852), an Irish poet and song writer. 

470, 1. Ge-Urania. Ge, a Greek goddess, the personifica- 
tion of the earth. Urania, the goddess or muse of Astronomy. 
(See classical dictionary.) 

471, 1. Tutelar Genius. Guardian spirit. 

OLD CHINA 

472, 1. The London Magazine, March, 1823. 

473, 1. Cathay. The mediaeval name for the Chinese em- 
pire. 

2. Speciosa miracula. Brilliant wonders. 

474, 1. Beaumont and Fletcher. See note 320, 3, De- 
tached Thoughts on Books and Readings. 

475, 1. lionardo. See note 135, 2, Imperfect Sympathies. 

476, 1. Wilderness of Lionardos. Adapted from Shake- 
speare.. 

I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys. 
Merchant of Venice, Act III, Sc. I, 11. 127-128. 

2, Izaak Walton. See note 72, 6, The Tico Races of Men. 

3. Battle of Hexham and the Surrender of Calais. Com- 
edies by the English dramatist George Coleman (1762-1836). 

477, 1. Children in the Wood. See note 208, 3, Dream- 
Children. 

2. Rosalind in Arden. See Shakespeare's As You Like It. 

3, Viola at the Court of lUyria. See Shakespeare's 
Ticelfth Night. 

479, 1. Mr. Cotton. Charles Cotton (1630-1687), an Eng- 
lish poet. The quotation " lusty brimmers " is from his poem 
on the Neiv Year. 

480, 1, Croesus. A king in Asia Minor famed for his 
wealth. 

2. Jew E, — . Nathan Mayer Rothschild (1743-1812), a 
noted London banker. 

CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD 

481, 1. The London Magazine, August, 1822. 

486, 1. Tartarus. See note 61, 2, Christ's Hospital Five 
and Thirty Years Ago. 



588 NOTES 

2. Joseph Andrews. A novel by Fielding. (See note 323, 
4, Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading. 

3. Complete Angler. See note 72, 6, The Two Races of 
Men. 

487, 1. Correggio. Antonio Correggio (1494-1534), a cel- 
ebrated Italian painter of the Lombard school. 

POPULAR FALLACIES 

493, 1. The Neto Monthly Magazine, 1826. 

494, 1. Hickman. A reference probably to some pugilist 
of Lamb's day. 

2. Harapha in the Agonistes. Harapha, wrestler of Gath, 
a character in Milton's Samson Agonistes. 

3. Almanzor. A character in Dryden's tragedy Almanzor 
and Almahyde. 

4. Tom Brown. A Scotch poet and philosopher (1778- 
1820). 

496, 1. Mandeville. Sir John Mandeville, the reputed 
writer of a fourteenth century book of travels. 

502, 1. Terence. See note 61, 5, Christ's Hospital Five 
and Thirty Years Ago. 

2. Senator urbanus with Curruca. A senator of the city 
with a warbler. (Curruca is an old name of several species 
of warblers.) 

3. Hudibras. A satirical poem directed again&t the Puri- 
tans by Samuel Butler (1612-1680), an English writer. 

4. Dennis. John Dennis (1657-1734), an English critic 
and dramatist. 

504, 1. Eobin Hood's shot. Robin Hood, the most cele- 
brated of English out-laws. He is said to have lived in the 
twelfth century. 

2. Swift's Miscellanies. See note 185, 2, The Old Benchers 
of the Inner Temple. 

505, 1. Cremona. A town in northern Italy near which 
Virgil was born. 

506, 1. Nimium Vicina. Too near. 

2. Plotinus (204?-270?), a celebrated Neoplatonic philoso- 
pher. 

507, 1. Every spirit as it is more pure, etc. Quoted from 
Spenser's An Hymn in Honor of Beauty, Stanzas 19 and 21. 

508, 1. Aperies. See note 342, 1, Ellistoniana. 

518, 1. Dante's lovers. For Dante, see note 57, 1 , Chrisfs 
Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago. 

521, 1. Pindaric Odes, Swift, like many other famous 



NOTES 589 

prose writers began his literary career by writing poetry. 
His best poems are his Pindaric Odes. 

522, 1. Scylla. In classical mythology a beautiful maiden 
who was changed by the enchantress Circe into a monster 
composed of barking dogs and serpents. She made her home 
along the shore of the Strait of Messina opposite Charybdis 
and seized mariners who attempted to pass. 

2 Merry. Robert Merry (1755-1798), an English writer. 
He was a member of the English Delia Cruscan Academy m 
Florence. 

525, 1. Persic. Eelating to Persia. 

528, 1. Hesiod or Ossian, Hesiod, a celebrated Greek poet 
of the eighth century B. C. Ossian. A semi-historical 
Gselic poet of the third century. (See note 27, 6^ The South- 
Sea House.) ^ ^ 

529, 1. Phoebus. See note 81, 1, l^eio Year's Eve. 

532, 1. Mysterious book in the Apocalypse. See the Book 
of Revelation, VI, seq. 

535, 1. Qui se credebat miros, etc. 
Who believed that he was listening to wonderful tragic actors 
Gladly sitting and applauding in the empty theater. 

2. Pol, me occidictis, amici, etc. 
Why, my friends, you have killed me. 
Not saved me; for such pleasure has been taken away from 

me. 
And a most delightful delusion forcibly removed. 



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